


Recall - Alternate Take

by doctorate_in_realology



Series: Recall Alt-Take [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Sort of Pharmercy?, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-08 22:18:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8865502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorate_in_realology/pseuds/doctorate_in_realology
Summary: An alternate spin on Recall, wherein Talon assaults Watchpoint: London shortly after Amélie is brought there by Tracer. Amélie is held accountable for it, and cast out—a decision that results in a schism within Overwatch, and all but completely alienates Tracer. "Exiled" is the de-facto Chapter 1 of this story.





	1. Disunion

**Author's Note:**

> It's here everybody! *thunderous booing* Me too!
> 
> Alright so here's the deal; this will be another story completely. Meaning it'll have numerous chapters and updates shit. Will it be as long as Recall or Epoch? Probably not, but it'll be JAM PACKED WITH TRACER BEING FUCKIN' PISSED AT EVERYBODY. I've got some pretty shitty- I mean nifty ideas cooked up for this crock of shit- I mean fic, so I hope you guys'll like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty so since the idea that spawned this mess of shit and fuck was originally a standalone one-off deal, I'll add it into the same series as this story and THAT will act as the "real" chapter one, ya dig? Think of [Exiled](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8806030) as chapter one, and chapter one of THIS as chapter two in the grande scheme of the whole thing. As I've said before, let me know what you guys think! Feedback of any and all sorts is welcome!

“What was I supposed to do, Angela?”

The question stirred a multiplicity of caustic responses in Angela’s mind. A more blunt version of her may have spouted them one and all, but she decided the utterance of any of them would only cause more problems.

The few hours succeeding Amélie’s departure were perhaps the most volatile Overwatch had ever endured. They had been polarized by the decision to exile her, and the resulting dichotomy was one of hushed tones and stolen bitter glances.

What she’d been asked was a fair question, she had to admit; Angela couldn’t simply tell Fareeha that her feelings were _wrong_ —she was far above such arrogance. But it was beyond unfair what they did to Amélie, and to Lena; she had expected Fareeha of all people to see that.

“You were supposed to think about the injustice of extraditing a possibly-innocent woman to people who would see her head on a stake,” Angela finally answered. “We didn’t even give her the chance to marshal a defense for herself.”

“Don’t you think that I considered that?” Fareeha asked, her tone portraying resentment. “Do you think I enjoyed it, that I was happy about it? We all had to make a split-second decision, and our lives hung in the balance of it. That’s a risk I didn’t want to take.”

“Both our family _and_ our humanity is in turmoil anyway, and we’re no better off for it! Amélie is still in great danger because of a crime she may not have committed! If we’d let her stay, we could at least have had her provide a defense, and _then_ we could have passed judgement. Now we may never have a proper answer.”

“If we let her stay, she might have killed us in our sleep!” Fareeha fired back. “You’re missing my point completely!”

“And you’re doing much the same with mine! How are we any better than Talon for doing what we did?”

“Because we did it to safeguard the people we love. Talon would do no such thing, _that_ is what makes us better.”

Angela scoffed. She sometimes wondered if all this talk of justice and protection of loved ones was borne of genuine earnestness, or of pontification and pomposity.

No. She knew Fareeha better than that. That wasn’t fair.

Fareeha seemed to agree, as she made for the exit in light of the insulting belittlement. She halted in the door’s absence.

“I don’t expect you to agree with me, Angela,” she sneered, “but I do expect that the reasons behind my decision at least be respected.”

The door shut tightly behind her.

Angela stared long at the door and finally dropped into her chair, thoroughly displeased with herself—if anyone had been pompous, it was her. She felt a hot stinging in her eyes. She quickly rubbed it away, not expecting it but not quite surprised by it.

It had been an emotionally-trying day, to say the least.

 

*******

 

Lena muttered an exhausted, half-hearted “thank you” to Reinhardt as she finished gathering her food from the mess hall counter. She promptly fled the room without a word. Nobody said a thing to her, or stopped staring at her from the moment she walked in right up to the moment she walked out. She pretended not to notice, giving only the floor her attention as she went to resume her solitude.

This was the last meal they would have in Watchpoint: London—as they had no intention of wasting any more time before relocating—and it appeared uncomfortable silence and an air of hostility would be dining with them.

“The poor thing’s not said a word to anyone since yesterday,” Mei said, the others who wanted to let Amélie stay seated around her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her like this.”

“Nobody has,” Lúcio chimed in. “She’s always so… bubbly. We need to—”

The whole room jumped as the silence was shattered by Jack slamming his platter down on the table and leaping from his seat. He made a beeline for the door, clearly intent on giving Lena another piece of his mind. McCree went after him and seized his forearm.

“Unless you’re real keen on having that girl rip your legs off, I suggest you sit the fuck back down.”

Jack tore his arm from McCree’s grip. “Suggestion noted,” he spat, turning to continue his march.

“He’s right, Jack,” Torbjörn said. “Screamin’ at her’s not going to do any good for anyone.”

He exhaled angrily, shooting a look at McCree who still stood at the ready, before taking his seat at the table again and quietly returning to his meal. Winston stood from the table, silently brushing aside his tray and excusing himself with trademark politeness.

“I’ll talk to her,” he said. He didn’t think he even deserved her time right now, but he had to try. She was family.

He made way from the mess hall to the living quarters. As the distance between him and the cafeteria greatened, he felt the tension of avoidance lift from his shoulders. A different kind of tension took its place, however, one that built and built as the distance between him and Lena diminished.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself to knock on her door. He lightly tapped his knuckles against the metal.

“Lena?”

Nothing.

“Can we talk?”

“Really don’t feel like it right now,” she replied, slightly muffled by the steel partition between them.

“Please?”

He just barely made out a sigh and some heavier-than-usual footsteps before the door slid open. There she stood. She looked…

Terrible. Like she hadn’t slept in days, though only one had passed. Darkened bags hung from her eyes, which were red from lack of sleep, or crying, or both. Her hair was mussed and knotted; unkempt, though not in its usual wildly-spiked fashion.

What had he done?

“What do you want, Winston?” she asked.

The tone with which it was spoken nearly made him flinch.

“I’m here to apologize,” he began, head slightly bowed and gaze reluctant. “I… It isn’t enough, and I don’t expect you to forgive me, but… I’m sorry. What we did to Amélie was unjust and cruel.”

Lena took a shaky breath. “Did you vote?”

“Pardon?”

“There was a vote on whether or not to send her away, right? Isn’t that why the rest weren’t with you guys yesterday?”

“Yes… Yes, we voted.”

“And nobody thought I’d have liked to have a say in the matter?”

“Jack only brought it up after you left,” Winston pleaded, knowing it was in vain from the moment he began. “We all knew how you’d react, and it all happened very quickly—”

“How would you react?! We were the only family she had, and we threw her to the dogs!” She was storming around her room now, arms shooting about in emphatic emotion again. “I cared about her a lot, okay? And I really wanted to help her, but nobody gives a toss about that. Instead, I’m getting treated like my opinion isn’t worth piss.”

Winston remained silent, holding fast as she aired out her justified anger.

“Just…” Her hands loosened from clenched fists and fell against her sides. “I appreciate the gesture, Winston, but I need to be alone for a while.”

Winston nodded in understanding. He slowly turned and excused himself from the room.

As the day dragged on, Watchpoint: London became less and less populated. Agents formed small groups and left at different times, hoping to avoid drawing too much attention as they traveled. With any luck, they would all arrive at their new base of operations none the worse for wear; an old pub in abandoned Eichenwalde at which Reinhardt and his Crusader brethren would frequently gather. The town was solitary, disconnected, dormant—a perfect hideaway for a rag-tag band of gregarious heroes.

Reinhardt, Fareeha and Angela left first, followed by McCree, Mei and Lena, then Jack, Torbjörn, and Winston, and finally, Hana, Lúcio and Genji. They were able to gather and pack their necessities in under an hour each; they traveled light coming to London, and they’d need to travel lighter leaving it.

Street lamps and buildings painted in sunset hues whipped past Lena’s vision as hers, Mei’s and McCree’s outdated four-by-four escaped the confines of the city streets and rumbled out onto an open country road. She hated seeing it fade away in the distance.

Not because she was sad to leave her home. Not because she would miss the Watchpoint, or the pubs, or the people. Not because of any of that.

But because Amélie was not with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU ASKED FOR THIS, MOTHERFUCKERS


	2. On the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Overwatch, split into nomadic trios, forges their way to Eichenwalde, their new home-to-be. Alongside their trip, Amélie has embarked on a pilgrimage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOO NEW CHAPTER
> 
> I've been really itching to get this one out, but I was sitting on it for a while not really knowing exactly how to end it. But I figured it out, and here she is! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> UPDATE 2/7/2017: Changing around some dialogue between Pharah and Mercy because reading over it again makes me realize how shitty it sounds.

Lena swayed on the brink of unconsciousness as the jeep rumbled down the moonlit road. They were closing in on Dover, where they would board a ferry to Dunkirk and continue onwards into Germany through Belgium and Luxembourg. It was a long trip, and an equally long two days that left her feeling drained had preceded it. She could just barely make out the quiet conversation between her travelling companions, able to catch only snippets of their talk.

“How’s she doin’?” McCree asked.

Mei slowly turned in her seat, meeting a sleeping Lena with a smile. “Passed right out, looks like.”

McCree heaved a thoughtful sigh, punctuating the silence. “I owe her an apology. You too.” Mei turned now to him, remaining silent so that he could continue. “For voting to boot Amélie. The more I think about it, the more I wish I could change it. It was wrong, and I don’t know that we can fix it... I’m sorry.”

Mei measured his words. As demure and sometimes gruff as he was, he was never incapable of humbleness or sincerity. She always adored that about him.

“It was a difficult decision to make,” Mei said. “I know you had your reasons, and I know that you took no pleasure in doing it. It’s alright, Jesse.”

McCree took a double-take between her and the road before them, illuminated by the headlights of the jeep and the spires of moonlight that speared through the gaps in the trees overhead. “…You’re not mad? Figured you’d be right furious with me.”

“I was upset at first,” she admitted, “but I know why you did it, and I can respect why you did it. I also know you well enough that if there had been another way, you would have taken it without hesitation. The way that you feel now—that it was a mistake, that you want to fix it—shows how good a person you are.”

McCree exhaled a tired laugh, hoping it would effectively mask the lump rising in his throat. “You’re incredible.”

She turned over his hand that rest on the console between them and threaded her fingers with his, giving it an endearing squeeze. “I try.”

He exhaled slowly again, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Get some sleep, darlin’. Long road ahead of us.”

“Are you okay to keep driving?”

“I’ll be just fine. Get some shuteye.”

She smiled. Small, but enough to light up the night around them. “Goodnight, Jesse.”

“You too, snowflake… Thank you.”

As Lena finally passed back into slumber again, the last thing she saw before her eyes shut for the night was their intertwined hands, and the corner of a smile.

She was happy the two could make amends. And she was happy too that at least both McCree and Winston wished to do the same with her. Truly, she was.

But she still needed time. To… Reflect. To cogitate. To heal.

*******

 

Amélie had made it to Geneva.

She had booked a room for the night in a downtown hotel, needing to rest before setting out again. It hadn’t taken her long at all to cover serious ground from London to Switzerland—itinerancy had always been one of her foremost traits. The entire time, she made efforts to hide her skin from the light of day; cyanosis made maintaining a low profile far from easy, given the looks she received.

Thankfully, her time with Talon was not without its benefits, or otherwise she would have not risked booking a stay in a hotel no matter where she was. She had access to numerous different identities and the knowledge of how to make more, insuring that she would never be in the same place twice, or anywhere as the same woman. Ironic that the very tools they gave her would allow her to evade their dogged pursuit.

She stood out on the balcony, ignoring the possibility of being spotted for a few minutes of introspection and a pleasant view. She could just see the top of the dome and surrounding spires of the Saint-Pierre Cathedral over the innumerable rooftops.

She ran the plan through her head for the umpteenth time—set out first thing tomorrow morning, get onto the main road and head through France—she was just north of Annecy, but there would be another time to visit, hopefully. From there, pass through northern Italy— _maybe_ allow some self-indulgence and stop in Venice—and into Slovenia; head northeast into Hungary, and hug the southern border until she was in Romania; make way past Bucharest and onwards to Constanța, along the coast of the Black Sea; catch a ferry from there to Georgia, then head to eastern Azerbaijan to Baku; another boat ride, this time across the Caspian Sea to Turkmenistan; take a east-southeastern course through the Middle East, and, finally, arrive at her destination.

Nepal. The Himalayas.

A monastery awaited there, along with group upon whom she had inflicted a grievous wrong all too recently. Perhaps hoping they would permit her to even enter was a cruel trick her own mind saw fit to play on her, but it was the only course of action she had. The tales of their abilities to enlighten people of even the most hopeless and dire temperament were known worldwide, however; she hoped they would accept her, even if it be with reluctance.

The journey might have been much more enjoyable under different circumstances—travelling the world in recreation as opposed to searching for answers to a crisis of existentiality.

If only she had company.

If only she had Lena.

 

*******

 

“Are you still alright back there, Reinhardt?” Angela called out as their vehicle flew down a winding road in the German countryside.

“Are you kidding? I love it back here!” he shouted back. “If only I had a proper seat… Truck beds don’t have particularly good lumbar support.”

Angela laughed, turning her head to Fareeha in the seat next to her. “No keeping him down, is there?”

She didn’t respond.

“Fareeha?”

Fareeha shook her head, bringing it up from its perch on her fist. “Hm? Oh, sorry. Sort of zoned out for a bit.”

“Is everything alright?”

She nodded. “Just fine.”

Angela breathed a sigh. She heard the hesitation in Fareeha's voice. Subtle, but more than enough to indicate to Angela exactly what was on her mind.

“I’m sorry for—”

They both looked at one another in surprise, having spoken in complete unison. They fell into placid laughter.

“Do you mind if I go first?” Fareeha asked.

Angela smiled. “By all means."

“I’m sorry for how I acted in London,” Fareeha began. “I was much too harsh. And I was foolish for thinking that I deserved respect for my decision when I was disrespecting yours."

Angela paused to study Fareeha's words, and deliberated on how to phrase her own.

"I know you better than to deride your convictions. You're a good person, Fareeha, and I'm sorry for acting so pretentious. And you're right—I should have given your decision the credit and respect it deserved."

 

She turned to see Fareeha smile, who then offered her hand, resting it palm-upwards on the console. Angela glanced to it, and then back again to the woman it belonged to. She took one hand from the steering wheel and set it in Fareeha’s.

“Apology accepted,” Fareeha said.

Angela glanced into the rear-view mirror. Good _lord_ , her cheeks had gone beet red. Her mouth parted into a pearl-white smile that cut a pleasant swath through the flattered crimson shade that adorned her face.

Reinhardt yelled into the cab of the truck. “Have you ladies made up yet?”

They laughed together. “Just did,” Fareeha said.

“Finally! The tension was killing me!” He bellowed a guffaw that swallowed the rumble of the engine. “We shouldn’t be too far from Frankfurt by now. I’ve an old friend who lives in Altstadt who would love to have us. A grand fellow—always has a plentiful supply of beer, too!”

 

*******

 

 _“The woman last seen diving off of Glavni Most into the Drava Canal has escaped police pursuit on foot and is still at large. An officer pulled her over earlier this morning when he mistook the numbers on her licence plate for those of a stolen vehicle. When asked to remove her hat, glasses and scarf, she fled, presumably wishing that her identity remain undisclosed for reasons unknown. The vehicle was found in flames on the second floor of a parking garage shortly thereafter. How the woman managed to bypass the vehicle’s flame retardancy protocols, light it aflame—as far as the police can currently tell, without any combustible materials in her possession such as lighters, matches or gasoline—and escape the scene in such a short time,_ and _proceed to evade pursuit until being cornered on Glavni Most is wholly unknown at this time._

_“Eyewitnesses apparently saw someone fitting the suspect’s description leaping from rooftop to rooftop, but when questioned, were uncertain as to who or what it was, as ‘no man or woman alive should be able to move like that,’ said those who were cited for information. Two officers were wounded in the escape—one suffered two broken fingers, while the other received a gunshot wound to his foot when the suspect grabbed him and drew his own firearm on him—but both are expected to make a full recovery._

_“She is believed to be 5’9”, has a strong, lean build, and her skin is described as being blue and cold to the touch. Anyone with information on this woman is asked to inform the police as soon as possible.”_

“Quite the story, hm?” the store clerk mused in Slovenian. He turned to the woman at his counter, but was surprised to see that she had taken her items and was long gone. Funny, he hadn’t even heard her leave.

His confusion quickly turned to horror, as he looked down to find wet boot prints leading to the door.

Surely, she made a mental note of adding Maribor to her perpetually-lengthening list of cities it would be best she never returned to.

 

*******

 

Genji kneeled atop a small rock face overlooking the foothills just beyond the border of Luxembourg. The night painted the plains a peaceful bluish-green; trees rustled and swayed far in the distance, creaking under the clement breeze; the echo of late-night commutes along the highways faded and mingled with the cracking branches as his meditation forced all stimuli to assume silence.

They were a welcome escape, his ruminations. They provided relief from the times his own thoughts would ravage his mind, or in times of great strife, like—

“Why can’t you just respect my decision?!”

Like _right now_.

“Because you _‘decided’_ to exile somebody based on an assumption!”

“How many times have we been over this already, Lúcio?! I’ve fought in _wars_! I’ve seen espionage! I’ve seen the damage it does, and I don’t want that to happen to us!”

Genji walked down from his overlook back to the camp they had erected for the night, deciding for the ninth time in the span of six days that his seclusion would yield no leisure; Hana’s and Lúcio’s ceaseless arguing was far too clamorous to allow more than a moment’s respite.

He was done playing mediator—it was time to play arbitrator.

“Neither do I, but do you know what’s _worse_ than that?” Lúcio retaliated. “Losing sight of who we are because we can’t trust people!”

“How can you say that’s worse than our friends being killed?!”

“Enough, both of you!”

The verbal combatants ceased their hostilities for once and turned to Genji. He positioned himself between them, hoping to serve as a bastion of peace between these warring comrades of his.

“You both had valid reasons for doing what you did,” Genji began, “but griping and maligning the other for them gets us nowhere but right back where this absurdity began; at a dichotomy. What’s past is past—there is no point in shouting at one another for something neither of you can change.

“If you want Amélie back, work _towards_ that goal. If you want to make reparations to the friendships that have been damaged because of her loss, work towards _that_ goal. Vilifying each other for something that has already happened is equal parts counterproductive and childish.”

He egressed from the camp back to his solitude on the rocks, pausing on the slight upwards slope leading to his perch to turn back to them. “I’ve heard more than enough arguing. So be civil, apologize to one another, and, I _cannot_ stress this enough… _Be. Quiet._ ”

He could practically hear their shoulders slumping as he walked away.

Lúcio sighed. “He’s right.”

“He’s always right,” Hana said, earning a laugh.

“‘Genji knows best.’”

“Sounds like a cheesy sitcom.”

“I mean, hey, I’d watch it.”

 _Finally,_ Genji thought. _Normalcy._

*******

 

The first of the travelling trios—Reinhardt, Angela and Fareeha—arrived at the foot of Eichenwalde’s gates. The heavy oak doors were sewn together with vines, and greenery spilled over the ramparts like the castle had been flooded with overgrowth.

Which it essentially had, as they discovered upon entering the town. Moss seeped through the gaps between the churned and dislodged cobblestones; ivy and algae fused the decrepit corpses of Omnics to the ground, each one a grim reminder of the conflict that begot the town’s current state; store windows were smashed in, houses lay in ruin, and they were the first to set foot beyond the gates in more than thirty years.

It was beautiful, in a macabre, somber sense. A poet’s paradise.

“It’s strangely… Tranquil, here,” Fareeha said.

“Indeed it is. A gruesome yet elegant portrayal of life after death.”

“Very well said, Reinhardt,” Angela said. “…How are you? How does it feel being back here?”

He donned an expression of morose pondering. One he had worn in the past, in the rare times where he would grow silent and soft-spoken, and fall into melancholy. Wildly uncharacteristic for the larger-than-life Don Quixote-esque personality that he was, which only made it speak volumes more.

“It feels... Ironic, yet fitting. My brothers in arms, my fellow Crusaders and I, were kindred spirits in many ways; you would look at them and see them as carbon copies of myself, all as loud and as convivial as the next and last. It is appropriate that, in death, they were given the peace and quiet that their sort of lives never allowed for… It makes me happy to see. And I’m glad that the world will once again be able to benefit from the thing they died fighting so hard for.”

His chest rose and fell with a contemplative breath, eyes locked on the castle in the distance with similar thoughtfulness. His eyes fell from their spot on the castle’s spire when he felt Fareeha wrap her arms around his left arm.

“Do you need some time?”

“…If it’s alright with you both, I would.”

“Of course it is, Reinhardt. Direct us to the pub where we’ll be settling in, and you can meet us there when you’re ready. Take all the time you need.”

The pub, much like the rest of the town, was in disarray. Tables and chairs of rotted wood were situated around the room; steins emblazoned with sigils of their respective Crusader owners lay scattered about the floor; vegetation hung from the gap in the collapsed ceiling, swaying in the wind that permeated the building; the banister that trailed from the bottom of the staircase and stretched across the second floor was missing more balusters than it had, either from rotting off or being knocked out in one of the many rowdy mishaps that most assuredly took place within the pub’s walls.

“Home sweet pub,” Fareeha said. Angela chuckled at the joke.

“I suppose we’d better get to cleaning the place up.”

“Might as well.” Fareeha looked as if something occurred to her. “How do you think the others are doing? Tensions were pretty high when we left.”

“With any luck, they’ve made amends like we have. We’re a pretty vivacious group, for the most part. I can’t imagine that they’ll be as inconsolable as—”

Angela and Fareeha locked eyes, and shared a sigh.

“—as Lena,” Angela finished.

“I wonder if she’s perked up at all along the way. I hope so.”

“I hope Jack has too, for Lena’s sake and his own. Otherwise he’ll say something that that girl will make him regret.”


	3. Locking Horns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Overwatch has just finally arrived at Eichenwalde. Their soon-to-be base is all but a disfigured pile of rubble, but that's the least of their problems. Alongside this, Amélie continues on a harrowing trek through the Himalayas, facing adversity at every turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AYYYYY I've been cracking away at this one for a few days now, and I think it turned out alright. This one's pretty lengthy! Kinda has a lot of swearing in it, too. I WONDER WHAT THAT COULD MEAN, YOU'LL HAVE TO READ ON TO FIND OUT

Overwatch had just begun the process of settling into Eichenwalde. It had only been a day or so after the last trio arrived—that being Winston, Torbjörn, and Jack—and as such, much of the pub was still marred and dilapidated. Hardly a home, but one with potential. And a good deal of character, too.

Some had acclimated to the setting quicker than others. Being that they were in a bar, McCree, for example, displayed no intentions of waiting to see what it had to offer.

“How’s our supply of liquor lookin’?”

Fareeha arched an eyebrow. “Jesse, it’s nine in the morning.”

“Road trips can leave a man like myself feeling mighty parched.”

“Men like yourself being shameless alcoholics?”

He laughed. “Alcoholic? No, nothin’ so crass. I prefer… ‘connoisseur.’” Fareeha laughed in return.

“How’s the big man doin’?” he asked as he went behind the counter and surveyed the shelves. “Heard about his old pal Balderich.”

“Yeah, we found him lying dead in the old castle. Reinhardt’s sad, as anyone would be; I think giving Balderich a proper burial was hard for him, but at least it’ll give him closure. It takes a lot to keep him down—he’ll be back to his old self in no time.”

McCree unscrewed the lid from the mouth of a half-full bottle of Schwäbischer whiskey, pouring a finger of it into a tumbler. He half-raised it in a one-man toast. “Here’s hoping.”

Fareeha chuckled, still finding it hard to believe someone could drink hard liquor first thing in the morning. Though, if anyone could do it, she supposed that it would be McCree. The man must have had a liver like a French goose.

Lena emerged from the lower-level sleeping quarters of the pub and entered the main room. She rubbed her eyes with her hand, and waved a languid greeting. “Morning, guys.”

They greeted her back in unison.

“Care for a drink, kiddo?”

She blinked hard, brow furrowing in equal parts confusion and listlessness. “It’s like, nine in the morning.”

Fareeha laughed once again at McCree’s expense.

“Killjoys, both of ya.”

Lena shrugged and approached them. “Never said no, did I?”

Now it was McCree’s turn to laugh at Fareeha, who looked completely gobsmacked. Lena took a seat beside him. He offered her a glass and filled it to her liking.

“Cheers,” she said. The two clinked their glasses together and knocked back a swig.

“You both have a drinking problem,” Fareeha scoffed.

“Guilty as charged,” Lena replied in jest, earning yet more laughter.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the quiet and the company, and completely disregarding the elephant in the room for most of it until it grew too obnoxious.

“How are you doing, Lena?” Fareeha asked, heavy with cautious curiosity.

Lena sighed in response. Not out of anger, for the first time in weeks, but in pensiveness. “I’m… I’ve been better. I still miss her. And I’m still hurt that I wasn’t given a say in the matter…”

Fareeha and McCree both shared a dagger in the heart at that, the knowledge that it was inflicted of their own doing only twisting the blade.

“…But I know it wasn’t an easy decision to make. I’ll be fine, I just…”

“You need time,” McCree finished. “No worries. Take as much you need. You won’t get any trouble from us.”

“Thanks, guys. I...” She searched for words that she could not find. “Thanks.”

They nodded. “I’m gonna head out and see if there’s anything else layin’ around that we can use to patch this place up,” McCree said. He looked to Fareeha. “Comin’ with?”

“Sure,” she answered. “Call us if you need anything.”

“Sure thing,” Lena said. She felt she didn’t convey well enough the appreciativeness she felt of their concern through her response, but they seemed to have caught it regardless.

McCree finished his drink and left the glass on the bar. Passing Lena, he gave her shoulder an endearing shake. Fareeha followed suit, doing the same and pressing her lips to the top of Lena’s head before exiting behind him.

Lena made it a point to alleviate some of the tension between her and Winston when next she saw him. She owed him that much, at least. Whether or not the others would be as apologetically forthcoming as he and McCree had been remained to be seen, but it was enough to know that, overall, they were at least worried.

She understood _why_ they all did what they did, though that did little to make it less hurtful that it happened at all. Without her inclusion, no less. But they were her friends-made-family. People like that love each other. People like that forgive each other.

The time went by in a serene silence, periodically interrupted by the others ambulating about the pub and starting their day. Putting on coffee; discussing existing plans and laying out new ones for reparations to be made to the bar-turned-base of operations; setting up workstations and a communications relay—

“Drinking at ten o’clock? Spending a little bit too much time with the cowboy, are we?”

And, apparently, asking really stupid and condescending questions.

Lena turned her head over her shoulder to see Jack walking around behind her, looking about the room as he performed menial tasks and not at her, as if he still smugly thought he was right.

“Not in the mood for this, Jack.”

“I’m not in the mood for this sulking anymore, either. I see that the time it took to get here did nothing to assuage it.”

“Oh, piss off.”

The other agents that were present stopped what they were doing immediately. The room, the silence, the very air they were breathing was fraught with discomfort.

“You’re an Overwatch agent. This moping doesn’t befit someone of your position. It’s ridiculous. It’s time to move on.”

“I said leave me alone.”

“Jack, that’s enough,” Angela said, trying to intervene.

“No, it clearly isn’t. Do you think we enjoyed what we did, Oxton? We did what we had to do, that’s it. When are you gonna get that through your head?”

“Jack!” Angela shouted. “I said that’s enough!”

Fareeha and McCree had heard the commotion, luckily not being too far from the building when the arguing began to rise, and entered a room full of people surely about to come to blows.

“Widowmaker was a threat to all of us—”

“Her name is Amélie,” Lena responded, her blood boiling hotter by the second. “And don’t you dare tell me one more time that she’s ‘dead’. You don’t know her. You don’t know anything.”

“I know what it’s like to lose people, but when those people are trained, augmented killing machines, it makes it a little more black and white. Or at least it _should_.”

“ _Jack_ ,” Winston growled through gritted teeth.

“Lay off the girl,” Torbjörn ordered.

Lena felt thunder and fire flooding her veins, felt her blood scorching the inside of her skin; her teeth were clenched to the brink of fracture; she heard her heart in her head more than she felt it in her chest, pounding in her ears like a drum; her fingers curled into the bar counter, digging her nails into it and leaving shallow crescent marks in the aged oak.

“Shut up, Jack,” she fumed. “Shut your _fucking_ mouth.”

He went on, unmitigated by the others and dead-set on proving his point. “You’re letting your personal feelings cloud your judgement. You’ve _been_ letting that happen ever since Widowmaker left. It’s high time you smarten up and get a hold of your emotions! You’re a soldier—act like one!”

McCree took a step forward. “Listen to me, you dollar store Clint Eastwood _fuck_ _—_ ”

He was cut short by a hollow _thud_. The stool Lena had been sitting on slammed into the floor as she launched from the bar and whirled around in a single blur of motion, Jack directly downwind of her commanding stare.

With a shout, she vaulted over the table before her, and charged.

 

 

*******

 

The jagged rocky spires of the Himalayas speared high into the clouds, piercing the white sky-borne veil. A shrieking and biting wind whipped through the pass, drowning out both noise and warmth alike. Each puff of breath that escaped Amélie’s lungs appeared as a small-scale version of the plumes of snow whisked into the sky by the frigid, howling tempest.

She pulled tighter on the front of her parka, yanking it shut to shield herself from the harsh weather. True, she may have been possessed of a chemically-induced resistance to the cold that trounced that of even the most stubborn and ornery snow leopard, but the gnawing frigidness of Nepal’s mountain regions had a way of superseding even that.

Her cleated boots dug into the thick ice that ambuscaded beneath the blanket of snow. She proceeded with exaggerated caution, making sure that every step she took was slow and deliberate. The path she was currently on was narrow, and flanked on both sides by a near-ninety-degree plunge. One false move, and—

The ice beneath her gave way and cracked apart, falling into the depths of the pass. She went with it, plummeting from her walkway and down alongside the sheer drop. She extricated the climbing pick from her belt, and, in one fluid motion, twisted in the air and dug it into the side of the glacial cliff. Her momentum dragged her down, barely mitigated by the pick, until it found purchase in a sturdy enough chunk of ice.

She grabbed the other pick from her hip and swung it into the wall above her. She gave it a tug, making sure it would stay in place and support her weight, before lifting herself higher up the wall.

She reached the top, some ten minutes later. A moment to breathe, finally.

Until fissures snapped down the side of the ridge, its structural integrity compromised by Amélie’s earlier misstep and the numerous punctures of her climbing picks.

All that was left to do was run.

She broke into a sprint, ice and snow bursting out from beneath her footfalls. The path crumbled away behind her, falling into the pass and slamming into the scabrous rock bed that awaited below.

At the end of the ridge, the path filled out, wide enough for safe passage. She had to move, and move fast.

The ice she was on broke away from the rest of the ridge, careening downwards and trying to drag her with it. She lost her footing, falling to her stomach, and was thrown off her course like a ragdoll.

She snapped a hand to the wall, desperately grabbing, clutching, hoping that there was anything for her to catch herself on.

A chunk of ice slammed into her gloved palm, and she halted her plunge for moments more. She leapt from handhold to handhold, ignoring the pain in her shoulder. Had she been anyone else, her arm would have been yanked from its socket.

Faster and faster, she climbed. Faster and faster, the ridge fell apart. Faster, faster, _faster!_

She leapt from her perch just as a fault line shot down its side. It peeled away from the wall and was sent into a nosedive. She would have gone with it, were she a second too late.

Faster!

She scrambled to the top. Her goal was but scant metres from her.

The seam holding what was left of the bridge in place gave way, and the entire remaining part of it began to snap off the cliff.

Faster!

She ran, feet slipping but finding purchase again with the next step. The end of the path retreated, the distance between her and it lengthened.

The ground was in freefall. She had to jump.

And so she did. She slammed into the cliff face and dug her fingers into the surface, forcing the rock to part so she could save herself.

At the last possible second, she latched onto a stone protrusion. As the ridge crumbled into dust below her, shattering and splintering apart as it collided with the earth, she clung for her life.

The universe seemed to be testing her. She was given opportunity after opportunity to give up. To let go. To accept death.

Was that indicative of something, she wondered? That her pilgrimage was nothing more than a quickly-fading glimmering thread of hope? She didn’t know, but if she died, she’d never get an answer. She would give the universe no such pleasure.

She clamoured up the wall, as quickly and as carefully as she could. Finally, after a death-defying trek, she hoisted herself onto solid ground. Sweet, welcome, solid ground.

She stared into the sky, laying on her back and taking time to catch her breath. The shuddering of the earth waned and fell from hearing.

Another noise took its place, however, wasting hardly any time. Amélie’s brow knit together as she tried to determine what it was.

_Is that… Growling?_

She lifted her head from the snow and scanned the surroundings. To her left lay nothing but a gap. On her right, towards the mouth of the small clearing, the only point of egress left, crouched yet another trial that—as it seemed—Saint Murphy himself had seen fit to tack onto her already-burgeoning list of problems.

A snow leopard—its ears must have been burning—prowled low to the ground. It took wary steps, circling around Amélie like a vulture. Why it hadn’t fled the area when the path collapsed was anyone’s guess.

She rose slowly to her feet, eyes pinned to her foe. Mirroring its steps, the two circled one another. The leopard’s maw retreated up its muzzle, bearing its fangs. Its ears flattened to its head, and a low rumbling growl seeped through the gaps between its dagger-like teeth like a foreboding miasma.

“Oh, you have _got_ to be joking…” Amélie disdained in French. She bared a fang of her own—a survival knife with a six-inch black blade and serrated teeth along the spine.

A beat.

Then another.

And another.

Then the leopard leapt forth.

 

*******

 

Lena launched from a table and spun midair, hurling her foot outwards in a lethal arc. Jack ducked beneath it and backed away, trying to put distance between the two of them but Lena closed it just as quickly.

It was a battle of superhuman reflexes against superhuman speed. Jack sustained just as many blows as he managed to block or avoid; Lena dug her knuckles into his ribs and abdomen despite his best efforts, though it did little to slow him down. He never struck back, only dodged and pushed her away when he could.

“You need to think about your actions!” Jack hissed. “All this is doing is proving my point!”

_“Then I’ll prove your point all goddamn day!”_

He had sparked her ire. A herculean effort under different circumstances, but he’d already pushed the envelope much too far. Lena would have been shocked if this outcome surprised him in the slightest. Unless of course, this is what he wanted to do all along—prove that she was emotionally compromised by spurring her to violence.

If the latter were true, she would be more than happy to oblige him.

She heaved her leg into his stomach and he caught it before it impacted, pivoting on his heel and hurling her into the air behind him. She landed in a backwards roll, springing to her feet mere moments later and kicking the table behind which she’d landed at him. Her size belied her strength, amplified by her being as furious as anyone had ever seen her before.

He leapt high, vaulting over it as it whipped past. Before he could even land, she was right back on him, fists and kicks flying at blistering speed, Jack blocking them almost as quickly. She refused to be deterred, refused to let her onslaught falter.

“Shouldn’t we be doing something?!” Fareeha asked anyone who’d listen.

“I got half a mind to just let ‘em relieve the tension,” McCree said. “I mean, Jack’s been pissin’ me off lately, and Lena _is_ winning…”

Lena launched herself at Jack and latched onto him, twirling and coiling around him like smoke. She abruptly shifted her weight, lurching downwards and using her momentum to wrench him down and slam him into one of the circular wooden tables with enough force to break it in two.

McCree recoiled. “Jesus, alright, maybe we ought to break it up—”

“You think!?”

The others rushed into the fray. Fareeha and McCree ran to Jack, grabbing him by the arms and moving him away. Reinhardt caught Lena in his arms and lifted her from the ground, turning his head away to avoid an errant elbow to the jaw as he backed away towards the door, the girl in his arms trying to escape his grasp and charge again.

 _“I’ll beat seven shades of piss out of you, you jaded geriatric_   _cunt! You understand me?! Gormless fucking pillock, I’ll break your bloody legs for talking to me like that! For what you did to her! This is your fault, you hear me?! This is_ your fault _!”_

Reinhardt succeeded in taking her away from the room. As the distance muffled her cries—threats of violence and vehement reprimands that were as creative as they were graphic—the others turned their heads to Jack. McCree’s face twisted into a condemning scowl.

“Big man, aren’tcha, Jack?” he asked, stepping closer to him. “Antagonizin’ her until she snapped just so everyone could see you were right. Feel good about yourself yet? Feel vindicated? Another job well done?”

“I don’t answer to you,” Jack growled.

“‘I don’t take orders from you, I don’t play by the rules, I don’t do this, I don’t do that.’ Cut the vigilante crap for _once_ in your life and do me a favour: next time you’ve got your head up your own ass, tell whatever figment of your _broken_ psyche you got up there that’s peddlin’ this two-cent ten-ply rent-a-cop bullshit philosophy to you to cut and run. ‘Cause it ain’t doin’ you an ounce of good.”

Jack met McCree’s measure with a venomous countenance. They glared defiantly into one another’s eyes for a few long and silent seconds before McCree turned away, leaving to go see Lena.

Before that, however, he had another stop to make.

“Winston,” he said, “spare me a minute?”

 

*******

Amélie dove to the right, rolling as she landed and narrowly avoiding a grievous laceration by the leopard’s razor-like claws.

It skidded to a halt on the ice and spun around, readying another leap. It poised, and propelled towards her again.

Amélie ducked under it and pressed her palms to its stomach, pushing upwards and throwing it behind her, effectively disrupting its trajectory. It landed unceremoniously on its side, twisting on the ground to get its feet back under it. It snarled furiously, coiling again to rocket towards her. It jumped, and again, she threw it away from her, this time slashing at it with her knife as it passed overhead.

The ice was spattered by dots of crimson, the blood nearly freezing the moment it left its host. The wound only served to exacerbate the leopard’s predatory rage, as it charged her again, faster and lower to the ground than the last time.

It had recovered quicker than even Amélie could react, and it slammed into her centre of mass and sent them sliding across the snow. The impact knocked her weapon from her hand, and it spun away from her.

She was now pinned beneath her animal aggressor. It speared its head downwards, trying to sink its teeth into her throat and thrash the life from her. She curled a hand around its neck and tried to push it back.

Its jaws were a hair’s breadth from her. If her resistance faltered for even a fraction of a second, her life would be forfeit. She wrenched its head upwards, trying to force it away, only for it to come back down again twice as determined. Its teeth snapped at her like a bear trap; spittle and mucous spattered her face with every bite and snarl; its breath, heavy with the stench of death, filled her lungs; she growled in exertion and defiance, and when the leopard roared a deafening omen, she roared back, screaming in the face of death and refusing the animal any quarter.

She shot her head to the side and released pressure from the leopard’s neck. Not expecting the lapse in resistance, it slammed snout-first into the ice, and jumped backwards. Amélie scrambled away from it, using the precious little time she had before the leopard assaulted her again to retrieve her knife.

She grasped it in her hand. Securing proper footing, she steeled herself to brute-force through the leopard’s next attack. It leapt once more, and she met it with the same tenacity, propelling off her feet and meeting it in the middle. She dug her shoulder in just below its ribs and wrapped her arms around it, and they fell straight down.

Now she had the leopard pinned, their roles reversed. She shoved its head against the ground with a hand around its throat. Before it could sink its claws into her back, she drove the knife into its jaw. It flailed and writhed and persisted, to which she answered by unsheathing the knife from its chin and plunging it once more into its temple with a sickening _pop_.

Its body went rigid, and, as the last of its life left it, finally went limp.

Amélie stood slowly from its corpse, gusts of steam erupting from her mouth as she heaved heavy breaths. Its paws periodically flicked and twitched, but it would besiege her no more.

She sat against the side of a rock, needing a moment to catch her breath and inspect herself for wounds. A bruised or broken rib perhaps, and a jarred shoulder from her battle against gravity, but nothing she had not sustained before. She could forge on.

In a few moments, though. After she had had a brief rest and made sure nothing else had decided to make her day any more challenging yet. As the snow fell around her, as her breathing stabilized, and as the din of the fight faded from her ears, she wondered.

_I wonder if she’s having a better run of things than I am. I certainly hope so…_

_I miss you, Lena…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is shaping up to be as long as Recall and Epoch probably so what I said when I started this was a LIE. I LIED to you. You were DECEIVED AND FOOLED.


	4. A Parting in the Clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hostilities still strain Lena and the rest of the group, and the conflict between her and Jack has become one of indignant glares and hushed tones. An opportunity arises for her—rather, she discovers that one has been made for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's more filth bye *chorus of inane guttural sounds as I scuddle back into the darkness*

_“You hear me, Jack, you chav?! You’ve bloody lost the plot if you think we’re done ‘ere! I’ll cut your fuckin’ Jacobs off!”_

“Lena dear, please, you—”

_“Reinhardt, let go of me!”_

“Just listen to me!”

_“I’m gonna knock that slag’s ‘ead between ‘is fuckin’ knees, let me go!”_

Lena hadn’t stopped trying to pry herself from Reinhardt’s hold since the moment he seized her. If his grip were anything other than vice-like, she would have been long gone already. Even then, she had succeeded in blinking away from him, and had made it back to the pub’s entrance before he managed to grab her again.

It was a battle of attrition. Both in volume and in strength, Reinhardt had to admit he was running for his money.

“Little one, you must calm yourself!”

_“You fucking calm yourself!”_

Reinhardt turned away from the door of the nearby house they now found themselves in and planted Lena on the floor. Letting her go, he backed into the doorway. She rushed the exit, but Reinhardt threw his hands in the air in a halting gesture.

“Lena, please,” he pleaded, “slow down and think about this.”

The fire raging in her gut slackened and wavered. With deep breaths and unsteady shoulders, she reluctantly stopped in her tracks, her gaze demanding a reason why she shouldn’t hospitalize someone.

“I understand your fury, but you must find another outlet for it. This infighting will serve only to drive a wedge amidst our family, and we have problems aplenty as it is.”

“I just—” she began, “ _God_ , why does he have to be such a prick?!”

He knelt down to her height, and placed a hand on her still-shaking shoulder. “Regrettably, I have no answer for you, but I do have a suggestion; go for a walk. To the castle, to the woods, anywhere you desire. This place boasts some of the most beautiful scenery in all of Europe—in all the world, if you ask me. I daresay that to let it go unappreciated would be an affront to nature itself. The surroundings have a therapeutic element about them. Take them in. Let them clear your mind of its troubles.”

Lena earnestly considered the proposition. She supposed some sightseeing would be a healthier way to air out her frustrations, for any parties involved.

“Sure… Yeah, sure, I-I guess that couldn’t hurt.” Her already-thick accent had been amplified yet more by her anger, and now the two waned alongside one another back down to a normal state.

“Would you care for some company along the way? I know the grounds very well.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll go it alone for now.”

“Of course. You will hear no disputes from me.”

Her gaze fell down and aside. She exhaled a laugh devoid of any entertainment. “I’ve made a proper arse of myself, haven’t I?”

“I assure you, even Shambali Monks would find their patience being tested if they’d been what you’ve been through. You have done no such thing, my little Lena.” He wrapped her in his arms. “No such thing at all.”

She returned the gesture with alarming alacrity, given the tumultuous inferno that burned in her golden-brown eyes not moments prior.

“Thanks, Reinhardt.”

She wanted to say more…

“You needn’t thank me, young one. Thank _you_ , for being strong. For simply being who you are.”

 …But she didn’t have to.

She and Reinhardt parted ways after leaving the house. She left for the castle atop the hill, while he went back to the pub to see if he could extinguish some flames.

The path to the old keep was rife with the bodies of Omnics that had been slain trying to assault it. Their hulls were crunched inwards or otherwise shattered, blasted apart by Crusader war hammers. A bird’s nest sat in the barrel of a rotary cannon that jutted out of an Omnic at an unnatural angle. Wooden limbs wound around the innumerable corpses as if the avarice of the Earth itself knew no bounds.

Lena was never one for poetic ebb and flow, but even she found herself trying to conjure a description of the scene that would make Oscar Wilde himself fall in prostration. Reinhardt was right—it _was_ therapeutic. Apart from the bodies, the place was bloody bucolic.

She approached the doors of the castle and let herself in. A great hall, lain with a silk red carpet that puffed out dust with every minute disturbance, stretched before her.

She decided to head right to the tower, to the highest point in the structure. A view from there ought to be breathtaking.

An ascension of a winding staircase was all she had to endure before confirming her suspicion—the vista was _gorgeous_. Green plains looked as oceans, waves of grass undulating in the rolling wind; the Black Forest swept similarly in the breeze, its supernumerary oaken spires weaving like artisan’s paintbrushes; Stuttgart sat right on the edge of the horizon, just barely visible in the distance. Its towers of hard light and composite metal and glass gleamed in the late-morning sun, and their glint was visible even from where Lena stood.

She would have to come at night sometime. To see the contrast, and decide which she liked better. It would be a very difficult decision.

The days passed by, and the pub began to look less like a wreck and more like a home. Torbjörn had closed the gap in the ceiling with impeccable timing, as it had begun to rain later that same day; the overgrowth had been purged from the main dining hall, and the tables and chairs that hadn’t rotted—or been shattered to splinters by having Jack smashed into them—had been rearranged into a normal setting; Winston replaced the shattered windows with hard light that he “just so happened to have lying around”; and Angela had set the stage for a proper medical office in the town herbalist’s old establishment just two buildings down the street.

Whoever resided there before her must have been a medical practitioner of antiquated style, as the overwhelming scent of cumin and incense that still lingered in the building was nigh-impossible to ignore. Fareeha was not spared the numerous retellings of the grievances Angela had with the notion of the techniques, but never even whispered a complaint. She seemed to find it cute, even.

All the same, however, Jack and Lena had placed an embargo on conversation with one another whose terms neither had any intentions of violating.

It was hard on everyone, not just the two directly involved in the conflict. Every time one would enter the same room as the other, tensions would soar. Lena would shoot contemptuous glances at Jack or vice-versa, or they would pretend not to notice each other while all others present couldn’t help _but_ notice.

Jack was being antagonistic, selfish, and downright cruel, that much was obvious. At the same time, however, there were better methods of conflict resolution available to Lena than concussing him with whatever blunt instrument lay within reach.

Nobody could blame her, though. Not fully, anyway. At one point or another, they’d _all_ felt like hitting him with something. She had simply displayed more of… An inclination to do so.

It was a thin line, but history had seen thinner—the ball was mostly in Lena’s court. Tensions would still not die down any time soon, but the shared ideal that Jack was acting like a tool at least held most of them together.

Lena was sitting with Mei and Angela in the main room when Winston beckoned her upstairs.

“Lena, could you come here for a moment?”

She looked up to find him at the railing overlooking them. The hint of a grin was just barely detectable on his face.

“Sure, be right there.” She looked to the two seated with her. “Wonder what he’s on about.”

“Beats me,” Mei said in a voice that clearly conveyed she knew something they didn’t. Angela looked at her and cocked an eyebrow, to which Mei replied by smiling from behind a glass.

Lena and Angela shrugged in joint confusion. Lena took one final pull of her drink—a pint of Guinness—and left the glass on the table as she stood. Approaching the stairs, she caught a glimpse of Jack entering the room before she began to ascend to the second floor.

Excellent timing.

She entered the saloon—a lounge that housed yet more whiskies and bourbon than the bar in the dining area, to McCree’s sheer delight—which Winston had since turned into a communications relay and media monitoring station. It had been remarkably well preserved in comparison to the rest of the building; the left wall was dominated by the bar, and in the centre of the room sat a small circular table surrounded by chairs of red napped fabric; along the back and right walls were the myriad holographic terminals that Winston had put in place.

McCree was seated in one of the chairs with a drink characteristically in his hand, and Winston was tapping away at the touch-screen keyboards of his computers. He turned to meet her eyes as she entered.

“I have something for you,” he said.

“Oh?”

He gestured for her to approach him and the screen. She passed by McCree, giving a wave.

“What’s up?”

Winston said nothing at first, but the smile he cracked spoke volumes more. “Take a look.”

He swiveled around in his chair and tapped one of the keys. A news report appeared on the screen.

Lena cocked her head and furrowed her brow. “Is there a mission for us or something?”

“In a manner of speaking. Just keep watching.”

A helicopter’s camera feed, its footage narrated in Slovenian, showed a car weaving between traffic and side streets evading police pursuit.

“Is this live?”

“No, this happened a few weeks ago.”

“Why—”

“Just watch! Trust me.”

The next shot was of a woman standing on a bridge and surrounded on both sides by police blockades, diving into the canal below.

“Athena, please pause on the frame right before the woman dives off the bridge.”

The footage sped backwards, and halted.

“Can you enhance the picture?”

The woman in the centre of the shot zoomed to the foreground of the screen. The resolution suffered, but not enough to be unable to discern who she was.

It was as clear as day.

“That’s Amélie…” Lena whispered.

Winston turned to her nodding. “She was last seen in Maribor a few weeks ago. The report seems to suggest that she’s fled the city, as nobody has tracked her down yet.”

Lena stood in stunned silence, trying in vain to figure out what the _hell_ she could be doing in Slovenia.

“It was Jesse’s idea that I get the monitoring station set up as soon as possible so I could dig for any information on her whereabouts,” Winston continued. “This is all Athena and I have found so far, but the trail is far from cold.”

Lena eyes widened, Winston’s intention finally dawning on her.

“You want me to find her.”

“And bring her back. For her sake and for yours.”

“Where would I even start? I mean, Maribor, sure, but we don’t have any idea where she’s gone since. And she’s not the type of person to leave many breadcrumbs.”

“Athena and I will keep our ears to the ground for any whispers of her location. In the meantime, we are lucky enough to have an excellent tracker joining us in this pursuit.”

“Not excellent,” McCree said, his hand sprouting out from behind the high back of the chair with an extended index finger. “ _Unrivaled_.” He fanned his hands outwards in feigned grandiosity to emphasize his peerless talent.

Lena laughed at his hyperbole. She turned back to Winston, absolutely beaming.

It had been far too long since she looked like that.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he placed a great hand on her back.

“Thank you, Winston,” she whispered. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s the least we can do for you,” he said. “Especially after all that’s happened…”

“Don’t sweat it, big guy. Been meanin’ to get back to you on that for a little while now. I know you’re sorry. We’re okay.”

McCree approached the two of them and placed a hand on Lena’s shoulder. “Ready for this, kiddo?”

Lena offered him a grin like a supernova. She turned fully, and pulled him into a friendly embrace.

“Bloody right I am. Thank you, Jesse.”

“Any time, Lena. About time you saw a bit o’ sunshine.”

She parted from him. “Are we gonna tell the others what we’re doing?”

“Might as well. Pretty sure nobody’ll have too many qualms about it by now. Jack will, I imagine, but that’s just because he don’t like losin’.”

Lena giggled at that—she was positively exuberant. “I’ll get packing!” she said, and all but skipped out of the room.

McCree turned his head to Winston after the two of them watched her go. Smiling, he held out his hand, palm-upwards. “Job well done, boss man.”

Winston chuckled, and slapped the hand that was offered to him with his own palm. “Likewise, old friend.”

McCree nodded once, and made for the exit. Before he could leave to gather his supplies, Winston called out to him, and stopped him.

“And Jesse?”

McCree turned in the doorway. “Yeah?”

“Good luck. Bring Amélie back. Bring her _home_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like always, let me know what you guys think! Typically, I've responded to any comments I get, but it tends to inflate the comment count so I won't be doing it as much henceforth. Rest assured though, I read and really appreciate them all!


	5. The Shambali

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amélie arrives at the Shambali monastery, and comes face-to-face with the monks there. The tension of whether or not she will face yet another exile gnaws at her.

Massive bronze statues hung suspended in the air above stone bases, depicting Shambali Monks frozen in timeless meditation.  A stone relief sat in the very centre of the courtyard, a few steps before the stairs leading to a set of towering wooden doors beset with iron rivets.  The doors to the monastery were housed in the façade of the cliff and flanked on both sides by enormous pillars of red-painted limestone.  The right side of the courtyard offered a vista of the mountain pass, strikingly beautiful, while the left was naught more than a rock wall.  The very peak of the mountain was visible from the courtyard, and the air was thin and frigid.

Amélie had made it.

She approached the doors, and heaved all her weight into forcing them open.  Ice lining the bottom of the doors cracked and crumbled away as the entrance was stirred.  

She strolled inside—unfortunately not much warmer than the exterior, but it was better than nothing—and closed the doors behind her.  They shut with a low, reverberant _boom_.

Amélie turned to find a hall stretched out before her; its ceiling high was enough to accommodate large statues identical to the ones outside, each one bookended with massive pillars.  An ornate red-and-gold rug traveled the length of the spacious corridor and ended at a set of stairs, atop which stood two more flights of stairs that led to branching paths, and a fresco of an eight-armed monk painted on the face of a rectangular pillar between them.

She ascended the right fork and found that they converged again beyond the monolith, leading to another hall.  Jadestone lions with maws unhinged sat in alcoves in the walls that ran the length of the room.  Water flowed from their mouths into a chasm below, the bottom of which eluded vision.  A solitary bridge served as passage to the next room.

Amélie crossed it, opened the doors, and found the Shambali—those who would either help her in her plight, or shun her and cast her out—in a circle of prayer, floating inches above the ground.

There were six of them, although judging by the size of the monastery, there was no telling how many more roamed its cavernous halls.

She peeled the black beanie from her head and smoothed over errant strands of hair.  She jammed it into her coat pocket as quietly as she could, trying not to disturb the monks with the abrasive swishing of nylon-against-nylon. 

“Why have you come?” one of the monks asked without lifting his gaze to her.

_So much for letting them finish._

She sighed, choosing her words carefully.  “I’ve come to ask for guidance.”

“What kind of guidance do you seek?”

“I find myself…” she stumbled clumsily over her own words.  “I’m lost.  I have been turned away from the only home left to me, and I didn’t know where else to go. What little purpose my life already held has disintegrated, its meaning crumbled away.  I need enlightenment.”

The monks ascended from the floor in unison, some uncrossing their legs and standing while others maintained their levitation.  They approached her, and formed a semicircle before her.

“Tell us of your story, child.”

Amélie let loose a worried sigh.  “Before I do, I must preface it with something.  You may choose not to help me afterwards, but… I am here to ask not just for help, but for the mercy of your reputation, because I’m the one who killed your leader.  I murdered Mondatta.”

At that, the shock evident in the monks’ glances to one another was almost physically palpable. Amélie could swear she felt something weighing down on her shoulders.

“I fully understand if you do not forgive me. I don’t expect you to, in fact. But I would like to present a case, if you would allow me.”

Another set of worried looks. Even with the Omnics’ lack of facial expression, contempt was clear and present in that moment.

Regardless, they allowed her to continue, to Amélie’s surprise and relief.

“You may explain yourself,” the centre monk answered.

She took a deep breath, and regaled them with the lengthy tale of her defection to Overwatch—how she encountered Lena in Talon’s headquarters, the conversation they shared, their meeting atop the clocktower, her living amongst the Overwatch agents, and, most notably, the attack and her subsequent exile. Amélie hoped it would be enough for them to understand her, but—much like how she had felt during her entire trip leading here—was unnervingly uncertain.

“You say that ‘some’ believed you to be at fault for the attack,” another monk said after she had relayed the full story to them. “Not all of them decried you?”

“No. Some were absent when I was confronted about the accusation, which leads me to believe that a vote took place, and that those who were not there had elected to let me stay.”

“And Miss Oxton, the young woman you say helped you, how did she react?”

Amélie recalled the memory with no great pleasure. Seeing Lena that upset was cause for much distress within her.

“She defended me very adamantly. She was appalled at the accusation and urged that I stay. When last I saw her, she was incredibly upset… How she’s doing now, I have no idea.”

Amélie would have given an arm and a leg to know what they were thinking. Their lack of emotiveness made it nearly impossible to discern what they thought of her, though she thought it safe to assume that they had no intentions of allowing her tutelage. Why would they think otherwise?

“I know that you may think I’m a monster,” she began again. “I’ve given you little reason to think otherwise… But I’m afraid I had nowhere else to go. This was all I could think to do next. I will not argue should you decide to refuse me, but it would mean a great deal to me if I were allowed to stay. If nothing else, I would at least like to... Apologize. For my actions against the Shambali.”

She saw them speculating amongst themselves in the silence that followed. All she could do was hope. Hope. Hope. Hope…

“Your tale is one of strife and torment,” the centre monk spoke again. “For that you have our sincere sympathies; we would not wish such malice upon anyone. But you must understand—Mondatta was our family. He was nothing short of the embodiment of the Shambali. We loved him dearly. His murder—an act of such iniquity— _cannot_ be overlooked. To allow his killer passage upon these grounds would be an affront to his very name. I’m sorry, my child. We must refuse you.”

Amélie’s heart dropped from her chest and into the pit of her stomach. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but the words escaped her entirely.

“…I understand,” she managed. “I won’t disrespect your decision.”

“We wish you the best of luck in finding the answers you need. Iris guide you.”

“…You as well,” she whispered. “Thank you for your time.”

She turned, head hung low, to open the doors and take her leave. Where she would go next, what she would do… She had no earthly idea.

“You forget your place, brothers,” a voice echoed throughout the room.

She and the other monks turned simultaneously to its source; another of the Shambali, hovering down a flight of stairs at the corner of the room, slowly approaching them. Brass orbs with highlights of blue rotated around his upper body and enclosed around his neck.

“You seem to forget yours,” one of the others replied. “You are a guest here. While we are happy to have you, we have made perfectly clear in the past that your departure from our teachings—”

“I simply found that the construction of interpersonal relationships better engenders enlightened spirituality. I do not malign the dogmatic style that Mondatta set forth, I simply do not embrace it as wholeheartedly. One cannot argue that my word does not still hold great value in these halls, Tchingatta, regardless of whether or not I am truly considered a member of the Shambali.”

The disputer floated closer to Amélie until he came within an arm’s reach of her, and turned around to face the others again. “Mondatta would not view this woman’s presence in this monastery as an affront, though I cannot say the same for turning her away when she is in dire need of our help. Should we do that, we are naught more than hypocrites.”

Amélie leaned around the Omnic before her to glance at the others. Again, they talked amongst themselves, deliberating on what should be done with her.

Their response genuinely shocked her.

“Forgive us, child... We were intemperate with you, and did not see clearly. Brother Zenyatta speaks true—should we deny you entrance in your time of need, we are little different than those who exiled you in the first place.”

“So,” Amélie hesitantly responded, “I can stay?”

“Yes. This monastery is as much your home as it is ours.”

She closed her eyes and nearly doubled over as she exhaled in blissful relief, neglecting to care that others were watching her. The trials and tribulations she had been through, the arduous path she had to forge to get here, all the while terrified that it would be for naught... It was all worth it.

She had something to work towards again. She had a home.

When she turned her gaze back up, the monk by the name of Zenyatta was looking back at her. “I would relish the opportunity to be your guide and tutor, should you wish to allow me the pleasure,” he said.

The corner of Amélie’s mouth turned upwards in a rare and small smile, and she nodded. “I would like that, Zenyatta.”

“Excellent!” He threw his arms in the air, and the orbs around his neck expanded out and whirled about with enlivened speed for a few moments. “Come, I will show you the monastery.”

He offered Amélie his hand. She glanced to it, then back to him, before taking it in her own.

They left the room together, and roamed the halls of the monastery. The size of the institution continuously surprised her; they passed through great room after great room, all the while Zenyatta telling her of the history that took place within their walls.

“I was surprised that they were not more concerned at the reformation of Overwatch,” Amélie said, in reference to the others she had addressed with her tale. “It’s considered criminal activity.”

“The monks here do not much concern themselves with legal ambiguity. Rest assured, your friends will not be informed against. Speaking of which, how is Genji doing?”

Amélie stopped and turned to face him, quite surprised. “You know him?”

“Very well in fact, yes. He is a pupil of mine. I was the one who helped him come to terms with his duality. I must ask; do you find yourself struggling with a similar issue?”

“Pardon?”

“You were not always this way, yes? You were not always the Widowmaker?”

Unsurprisingly, Zenyatta was very astute. “No, I wasn’t always the Widowmaker. I lived a relatively normal life before Talon abducted me. Before they subjected me to weaponization.”

“Do you view what Talon did to you as a gift in any aspect?”

“In some. My life, although at least somewhat normal in comparison to the one I live now, was far from happy. They took me from a miserable existence, yes, but plunged me into another one altogether. Though it was not without its benefits, I must admit. I have numerous skills at my disposal now, ones that far exceed normal human limitations. If that hadn’t happened to me…”

_I wouldn’t have met Lena._

“You wouldn’t be where you are now,” Zenyatta concluded.

“…Yes.”

“Ah, you see, without even knowing it, you have already taken your first steps towards inner peace. You are a very intelligent woman, Amélie. Given enough time, I am certain we will be able to give you the answers you seek.”

“Thank you, Zenyatta. That means a great deal to me.”

“Of course. Now, before I get sidetracked again,” he said with a light laugh, “how is Genji?”


	6. Manhunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lena and McCree set off on their hunt for Amélie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY WOW I HAVEN'T UPDATED THIS IN LIKE A MONTH I'M REAL SORRY
> 
> For the LIFE of me I could not write anything resembling anything even slightly reminiscent of something that wasn't terrible, so I kept putting this off instead of lighting a fire under my arse and just getting the damn thing done. I hope you guys enjoy, thanks for being so patient!

Lena hefted her duffel bag up onto the bar, and dropped it beside McCree’s. Their gear, ammunition, food, drink, appropriate clothing for the slew of climates they would be wading through, and a luxury here and there were all packed away.

It was good that skills of even the most questionable moral fibre had their applications, as McCree’s familiarity with illicit cargo trafficking, owing to his past with Deadlock, would doubtlessly prove invaluable. Their luggage would have them behind bars before they even cleared the border, otherwise; two cases of magnum rounds, the charging dock for Lena’s accelerator, a bottle of German whiskey, forearm-mounted pulse pistol holsters and a bag of pistachios was admittedly a strange combination.

As McCree suspected, the news that he and Lena, along with help from Winston and Athena, would be going after Amélie was largely welcomed. Torbjörn was wary still, but even he needed little convincing. Lena guessed that his change of heart was likely in direct correlation with seeing how caustic Jack had been acting. Another point on the board for her, she entertained.

Mei approached them as they were digging around in their bags, making sure they hadn’t accidentally omitted anything from their things.

“I realize that I’m saying this to a pair of people that don’t share an ounce of caution between them,” she said, “but _please_ be careful.”

“What do you mean ‘not an ounce of caution?’” McCree asked, feigning insult.

“You lost your arm in a bet, Jesse. I don’t think I’m being terribly unreasonable.”

Lena almost knocked the bags from the counter as she whipped around. “ _That’s_ why you’re missing an arm?! Why would you gamble a body part?”

“It didn’t go down like that, it—look, I’ll tell ya once we’re on the road.” He turned back to Mei. “Don’t worry, sweet pea, we’ll be back before you know it.” He tilted her head up with a hand beneath her chin, and she bridged the rest of the gap, pressing her lips to his.

“Be sure to tell Amélie that we miss her,” Angela said, parting from Lena after a farewell embrace. “That we want her back, and we’re sorry.”

“Will do, love. Be back in no time.”

After all their goodbyes had been said, McCree and Lena took their bags from the counter and exited the pub. Once they’d acquired their jeep from the mechanic’s shop-turned-motor pool, they would depart.

Their first stop was an obvious one—Maribor. Lena kept her fingers crossed in hopes that they would find something there that would help them track Amélie down, and that Winston would have similar success in finding any reports of her presence. Whatever he found would be sent encrypted, scrambled, spread across various network pathways and reconstructed at the receiving location in order to sidestep any intrusions. If their luck held out, then they would have a trail of breadcrumbs to follow.

Jack would be remiss, however, to allow them to cover any ground at all before issuing a final parting grievance.

“I still think this is a terrible idea.”

They turned back around to face the building’s entrance. He was leaning against the wall beside it, arms crossed.

Lena cocked her head to the side, twisting her expression into equal parts amusement and condescension. “Were you… Just, standing there the whole time? Like, are you serious?”

“You’ll be racing Talon to her,” he went on, ignoring the question completely and pushing off the wall with his shoulders. “What if they find her first? She’ll be dead, or reconditioned again, in which case we’ll be right back where we started. What if she’s already turned herself in to them, and is looking for us right now? What if they find us here while you two are galivanting about?”

“What if I don’t give two thirds of half a shit about what you think?” Lena fired back, calmly but very firmly.

“Lena, c’mon, let’s get going,” McCree whispered, trying to dodge the argument.

“Then there really is no reasoning with you,” Jack answered. “Overwatch agents should show diplomacy in the face of conflict whenever possible, instead of resorting to violence and doing whatever they please regardless of the rest of us being put in danger by it. Clearly you don’t have either the nuance or the patience to do that. You’re better than this, Lena.”

“Ooh, harsh digs, granddad. Maybe I’ll use those next time I’m climbin’ off your mum.”

“Lena. Let’s go.”

She turned to walk away, but shot Jack a final glare before taking her leave. McCree followed suit once she turned away; Jack met it, and walked back into the pub.

“This’ll be like a bloody vacation, I swear,” Lena grumbled as they made their way to the jeep.

“I hear ya, kiddo. No worries, a bit of road-trip reprieval will work like a charm.”

 

*******

“You still haven’t told me that arm story of yours.”

Lena and McCree had been on the road for just shy of three hours, but were well on their way to being out of Germany. They had cleared Stuttgart’s limits at good pace, and passed Ulm and Augsburg much the same. They were closing in on Munich when it occurred to Lena that she was still awaiting an explanation.

It slipped her mind for the first hours of the trip—she was more focused on the time she’d have away from the toxicity between her and Jack, and on her excitement to find Amélie. Now, she was more than ready to hear the details.

“What? Oh, right. That.”

“Spill ‘em, cowboy.”

McCree heaved a sigh, though his grin betrayed the exasperation he was trying to convey. “Well, for starters, Mei’s throwin’ me under the bus here, ‘cause I _didn’t_ _bet_ my arm. I was playin’ poker with some folks of… ambiguous moral values, we’ll call ‘em, and I was cleanin’ house. Couldn’t lose. I got great hand after great hand, and soon enough, I was havin’ to tilt my head up so I could see the hapless looks on those fools’ faces over my winnings.

“Well unbeknownst to me, one of the bastards had marked his cards. He was lettin’ me rack up the winnings, bidin’ his time, and in one fell swoop, I lost the whole lot. Now, before I tell you this next part, keep in mind that this was quite a few years ago—I was a mite stupider then than I am now.”

“Hard to believe.”

“Ain’t it? Anyway; I was strapped for cash—otherwise I might have given my association with those folks a second thought—so I tried to win the damn pot back. I didn’t figure out the cards were marked until _after_ the whole shebang, so I kept tryin’ my luck until I was so far in the hole I couldn’t tell which way was up.”

“So you legged it and lost your arm in a brawl when they caught up?”

McCree’s head rocked metronomically in thought. “Yes and no. I _did_ bail like a bat outta hell, you’re right on that front. Here’s the kicker; I lost my arm because someone bought it off me.”

“What?”

“Yes ma’am. I’d evaded pursuit for a while, but those sumbitches were right on my heels. Y’see, they didn’t just want what I’d bet them—they wanted the bounty on my head too. The poker game was just a way of squeezin’ a few extra bucks outta me before they put me in the ground. So, here I was, not a penny to my name and a cadre of piss-drunk furious foes after everything I had from life to laundry. Suddenly, after a bit o’ downtime in a dingy little restaurant I had holed up in, I’m approached by some highfalutin reprobate businessman-type. Mind you, he looked no less deplorable than the other folks that were chasin’ me, this one just had a tie and a bodyguard—and he was strangely knowledgeable about my dilemma.

“Told me he’d pay off my pursuers and convince ‘em I’d bit the dust. The catch was that he wanted my arm in exchange. Didn’t have much of a choice at the time, so I agreed. He made off with an extra limb, left me with just enough cash to get myself a prosthetic one—out of the kindness of his heart, I’m sure—and the rest is history.”

“Wait, no no no, pump the brakes—why the bloody hell did he want your arm?”

“Well, it was rather obvious I was in pretty dire straits, financially and otherwise, so he knew he wasn’t gonna get a dime outta me but still wanted something for the trouble. He had some kind of degenerative bone disease that had just recently planted its roots in his left arm, and it turned out he saw me as a good enough candidate—we shared a certain similarity in build and colour, y’see. Why didn’t he just get a prosthetic like me? Or get medicine or somethin’?” McCree shrugged his shoulders and gave a non-affirmative grunt. “I think he said something like having a ‘healthy skepticism of modern medicine.’ I don’t think the guy was the most mentally-stable fella anyway.”

“Huh,” Lena finally said after a moment’s silence, processing it all. “That’s wicked. What’s it like? Do you like the arm?”

“Hell of a lot better’n bein’ broke and dead, that’s for sure.”

 

*******

 

Lena ducked beneath McCree’s arm and entered through the door he held open for her. The restaurant they decided to stop at was bustling with patrons, and the sensory assault upon entering was one of typical offenders; clanking dishes, the din of a hundred separate conversations all happening at once, the amalgamated scents of the menu’s various options, and a blue haze of cigarette smoke courtesy of the establishment’s less-considerate customers.

The two of them were exceedingly polite to their waitress after positively butchering the poor girl’s native language while trying to order food. To her credit, she was understanding enough to keep a straight face and remain personable, so she could expect a generous tip for that alone.

They went over their plan for the following day in hushed tones over dinner. They would most certainly be in Maribor by tomorrow, after Salzburg had outlived its practicality as their first pit-stop.

That wasn't to say that they didn't enjoy the town—it was a lovely locale, and the few interactions they’d had with its denizens thus far had been quite fond.

The group of men that had been eyeing Lena’s and McCree’s table from across the room almost since the moment they themselves entered the restaurant would likely not be as amicable.

“They still staring at us?” Lena quietly asked.

“Yeah. Keep glancin’ over here all nervous-like.”

“Think they’re fixing to pick a fight?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. Shoulda known it wouldn’t be long before we found trouble. Or it found us, I should say.”

“How many?”

“Five. Two of ‘em are pretty big, too.”

“Piss poor odds for them, then.”

McCree let out a low chuckle. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Let’s just pay and scoot on outta here.”

Lena heeded the suggestion and left her money on the table, McCree doing the same. They fled the restaurant with as much speed and normalcy as they could muster, not relishing the possibility of having civilians in the crossfire of the dawning of an altercation.

“No time to hang around here,” Lena said. “We gotta get out of town tonight if we want to keep our heads down.”

“Read my mind.” McCree gestured towards the corner of the building, beyond which sat the parking lot and their transport. “We’re right here.”

They rounded the corner, and, much to their dismay…

“Tires are slashed,” McCree said.

“They’ve got pals,” Lena deduced.

The five men from the restaurant rounded the same corner shortly thereafter, and four more approached from the furthest reaches of the parking lot, lurching out of the darkness of night and circling like vultures.

“Sure looks that way, eh?”

“Bugger me…”

The men encircled them. The aggressors before them advanced slowly, forcing them backwards, while the others behind them backpedaled to provide them room—they were moving them further away from the prying eyes of the public.

They came to a stop at the back of the lot.

“How can we help you gentlemen?” McCree asked, assuming a façade of nonchalance.

“You can come quietly,” one responded, presumably the ringleader. His accent hobbled his English considerably.

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid.”

“We want your bounty, cowboy. Whether we get it from you dead or alive is your choice.”

Lena heaved a sigh. “I can’t take you anywhere,” she said to McCree.

He shrugged indifferently. “What can I say, stardom ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

Lena exhaled a laugh, and glanced over her shoulder to the men behind them. She turned fully to meet their measure, leaving the espying of the others for McCree.

“I bet his friend’s got one too,” another spoke up. “Overwatch’s poster-girl.”

“I’d recommend you leave her out of this,” McCree foreboded.

“You don’t scare us, tough guy.”

He grinned like a wolf. “Oh, it ain’t me you need to be afraid of.”

Lena espoused a similar visage. “Appreciate the compliment, mate. Wanna get this over with so we can get going?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

The volatile encounter erupted into a violent blitz in the blink of an eye, when Lena leapt forth and slammed one of the assailants into the pavement. Rail-thin and lightning-fast, she danced around them with ease that suggested a sixth sense and a second nature.

She hooked her fist under an attacker’s chin, snapping his head back and sending him reeling; she twirled-about face and caught another man, twice her size, in the jaw with her elbow, before grabbing his arm and throwing him over her shoulder like a featherweight. She leapt high, kicking out her leg in one direction and hurling her fist outwards in the opposite; her heel found purchase in a clavicle, while her knuckles smashed into the bridge of another’s nose.

McCree had waited until he was reached before throwing out his left elbow and crunching one of the men’s jaws with the metal protrusion, the housing for his arm’s heat sink. Another wrapped his arms around his waist and tackled him to the ground. McCree grabbed his shirt collar and yanked him downwards, slamming the hoodlum’s nose against his forehead, before knocking him off with a blow to his jaw. He rolled aside to dodge a foot coming down on his head like a blunted guillotine and whipped his leg out. The bounty hunter, one of the larger ones from the restaurant, hit the ground with a thud. McCree bashed his heel into the man’s face, knocking him into a pain-induced slumber.

McCree recovered, only to feel a fist heave into his cheek. He responded— _hard_. He swept the legs out from under the man he owed the strike to and forced him head-first into the asphalt.

He turned around, his thugs dealt with, to see Lena finishing off her last; she smashed her foot square into her assailant’s sternum and sent him sailing into the back window of their now-stagnant jeep. The back windshield cracked under the force, and the bandit fell unconscious at her feet.

She turned to McCree, chest and shoulders rising and falling, and gestured her head to the jeep. “C’mon, let’s get our stuff and hit the road.”

“What about a car?” McCree reminded, rolling his shoulder and stepping over the groaning heaps on the ground.

Lena flipped out a keyring and twirled it about her index finger, cracking a coy smile. “These lads don’t really need theirs right about now, now do they?”

 

*******

A Budapesti news article had claimed that a woman with blue skin had stolen a vehicle in broad daylight in the middle of the market district. The car was found hours later beyond the Romanian border, in the city of Arad.

Amélie was heading east, clearly, but to where still eluded conclusion.

McCree had found her tracks in Maribor, much to Lena's reassurance and joy. Winston and Athena’s efforts then led them to Constanţa, where a ferryman had revealed to them that he remembered that a woman fitting Amélie’s description had made use of his services. It was rather hard to forget such personage; blue skin and a disposition of such intensity was easy to commit to memory.

It appeared that she’d ferried from Constanţa to Sevastopol, then from Yalta to Novorossiysk, and finally from there to Poti, on the Georgian coast. She obviously was intent on a destination, which meant that the chase would not carry on indefinitely; it would lead somewhere specific, hopefully with her alive and well at the terminus. Lena hadn’t been this excited since they set off—they were on her trail!

That was as much a blessing as it was a curse, however, and Lena knew it. If her and McCree could pick up Amélie’s trail with what admittedly little resources they had at their disposal, then Talon likely wasn’t far off her scent either.

The pair had booked lodging in a hotel in Ashgabat for the night. McCree had fallen fast asleep, but not before sharing a video call with Mei to let her know that things were well, and that he missed her and loved her. Lena couldn’t help but eavesdrop, grinning with wild giddiness throughout the entire duration of their conversation—they were right smitten with one another, they were.

Now it was late at night, and as much as she would have welcomed sleep, sleep would not welcome her. Save for muffled footsteps and her own breathing, it was wholly quiet as she idled in the hotel room. She was consumed by boredom, until a call from Winston would grant her transient respite.

She snatched the holopad from across the couch upon which she was curled and opened the notification.

“Hey, big guy!” she shout-whispered, and waved at the screen. “How’re you getting on?”

“I’m doing well, thank you,” he responded, clearly sleep-deprived. “Athena and I have been working day in and day out to dig up anything we can, so I haven’t been getting much sleep, but that’s not the point. I have news, though I’m not sure whether to call it good or bad.”

“What’ve you got?”

“If I’m interpreting these reports correctly, the next trace of her is in Kathmandu,” he said.

“Nepal? What could she be doing th—”

Lena stopped herself. It dawned upon her why Winston was indecisive in designating this as good or bad news.

Amélie had a past with the Shambali. A bad one.

“I’m wondering if she’s tracked down the Shambali,” Winston grimly postulated. “Do you think Talon has…?”

“Put her back on the warpath?”

“That’s what I was thinking. They _did_ have her kill Mondatta.”

“No. I don’t believe it.”

“Could she have lapsed her conditioning? Maybe she—”

“We can’t think like that, Winston. Maybe she…” Lena desperately clutched at an idea, but could find none that was concrete. “I don’t know, maybe she wanted guidance or something? Who knows what she was thinking when we kicked her out.”

“Don’t mistake this as accusation; I truly do want her back. But I just don’t want to ignore the possibilities here.”

“I know, I…” Lena sighed, becoming somber. Scared. “I know.”

Winston gauged his response carefully. “What will you do when you find her?”

“I’ll get answers. And I’ll get her back. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll get her back…”


	7. Conflict in the Priory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh look I didn't wait a month before doing this one whaddya know
> 
> Let me know your guys' thoughts so far! Criticisms, approvals, questions—shoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amélie and Zenyatta meditate, and speculate on her future; Amélie is confronted by fellow disciples.

“I have noticed the other pupils giving you strange looks.”

Amélie suppressed an indignant growl at the distraction. As helpful and as keen as Zenyatta was, he could be very talkative, even during the meditations he was so adamant about enforcing.

“Pardon?”

“The other pupils here, they look fearfully, perhaps even contemptuously, upon you. I am sorry they treat you this way.”

Amélie shrugged her shoulders, her eyes still closed. “I’m used to it by now. I’ve received looks like that for a long time. I don’t concern myself with what strangers think of me.”

“That is fair enough. I could do something about it, should you wish me to. That kind of judgmental behaviour is not what an adherent to the tenets of the Shambali should be exhibiting.”

“No, thank you. It’s quite alright.”

“You’re very welcome. Now, resume your meditation, you talk too much.”

Amélie sighed to herself, but couldn’t help but find Zenyatta’s peculiarity actually somewhat endearing. Whereas the others fit very easily into the mold of the stoic, spiritual academic, he deviated from the trope like oil from water.

“I have to admit, you strike me as rather eccentric, Zen—” Amélie began, before pausing in thought.

“What troubles you, my student?”

“No, nothing. I’m just, not sure what to call you. Would you prefer Zenyatta? Master?”

“You may call me Susan if it pleases you.”

At that, Amélie finally opened her eyes. She shot her mentor a surprised look, cocking her head and arching an eyebrow. He met her gaze all the same, but said nothing, forcing a strange silence between them.

“That was a joke,” he finally said.

“Oh. I see.”

“It was funny, was it not?”

“Yes.” Amélie shuffled to assume a more comfortable position. “Yes, I suppose it was… Susan.”

They went on in silence, continuing their daily meditation for the next hour as Zenyatta’s routine insisted. Amélie had quickly found that she looked forward to the daily practice. While some may have found it dreadfully boring, she found it soothing beyond measure. It provided a welcome escape from the restlessness of her thoughts.

They began on a walk around the monastery once their meditation for the day had come to an end. Amélie found the awareness of her surroundings during their excursions compared to the awareness of her thoughts during their meditation to be an interesting contrast—the mingling of physical and mental cognizance. If that was another understanding Zenyatta had tried to impart upon her, he had done a superbly subtle job.

“May I ask what you have thought about doing after your time here has come to an end?” Zenyatta asked as they walked—or hovered, in his case—slowly around the walkway that overlooked the enclosed inner courtyard.

“I don’t have the faintest idea,” Amélie confessed, “Maybe I'll… I’m not sure.”

“Maybe you will what?”

Stacks of steam escaped Amélie’s flaring nostrils as she breathed a sigh. “I thought… Perhaps I would try to ingratiate myself to Overwatch once again. I miss Lena a great deal… But if I have even a modicum of self-respect, I should let it go. They _are_ the reason I’m here.”

“Regardless of that, you still think very highly of this ‘Lena,’ clearly.”

“I do.”

“What about her has lead you to do so?”

Another sigh, as ponderous as the last. “She is very kind. And generous—she offered me a second chance and a place to stay without batting an eye.”

“It seems that she places great trust in you, even when she knew you for but a short time.” Zenyatta glided over to the railing and stopped, clearly meaning for Amélie to take his side. She did. “Heed my words; worry not what you will do after you are finished here. Simply trust that the universe will have an answer ready for you. Instead of fretting and grappling for a solution yourself, trust that it will be obvious and present once the time is right. Trust, in the same way Lena trusts you, and your path will be clear.”

Amélie gave a nod of consideration. “I will. Thank you.”

               

*******

The malicious looks that were levied upon Amélie were as prevalent as ever. No wonder Zenyatta had noticed.

The stolen glances from across the commons; the wide berths she was given in the halls; the refusal to sit with her during meals; the furtive espying she received by one of the male pupils when she was exiting one of the hot springs in the sauna, which she promptly caught and retaliated to with an icy glare—needless to say, the young man made it a point not to stare anymore; the whispers she saw being shared, heard being distributed, among the others whenever she would enter or leave a room; Amélie saw it all.

She had sensed hostility right from the moment she was permitted entry to the monastery, and as such, wasn’t terribly surprised when it came to a head in the form of a confrontation.

Amélie was enjoying her meal in pleasant silence, admiring the edges of the room’s shadows formed by the sunlight permeating the hall and the flames of candles flickering in the invading draft, when three other students suddenly sat across from her.

“Amélie, correct?” the young man in the centre said.

She did not bother verbalizing her response, resorting instead to a minute nod and paying more mind to her food than her fellow disciples.

“My name is Harshad,” he said. “This here is Stefan, and this is Kara.”

“A pleasure,” Stefan opened.

“Nice to meet you,” said Kara.

“Charmed,” Amélie said back, deadpan and socially void.

“We’ve noticed that Master Zenyatta has chosen you as his pupil,” Harshad went on, undeterred by Amélie’s standoffishness. “That’s quite the honour. How has your tutelage been thus far?”

“Better than yours, clearly,” she fired back steadily, “because I’m not busy concerning myself with other people’s business.”

The other two, Stefan and—what did he say the girl’s name was again?—seemed taken aback, but Harshad stood his ground, offering a smile instead of recoiling in surprise.

“I see your time here has done nothing to curb your rancor. It’s almost impressive, really, how—”

Amélie set her cutlery down—a bit louder than she’d intended—and sat up in her seat. She finally turned her attention from her food to the trio before her.

“I know very well why you’re here, so if you’d like to save all of us the time and just get to your point instead of pontificating like a superfluous little weasel, I would appreciate it.”

All traces of amusement drained from Harshad’s face. His cohorts assumed closer seating to him, and leaned in closer across the table alongside him.

“You murdered Mondatta,” Harshad maligned. “You shouldn’t be here. You don’t belong here.”

“Anywhere, for that matter,” his female cohort whose name continued to elude Amélie cut in. “Wherever you go, misery and death follows you. You’re a monster.”

“We’ve heard the stories about you,” Stefan added. “You’re the Widowmaker. The assassin. You’re a war criminal. Why the Shambali allow you to walk these halls is beyond me. Beyond any of us.”

Amélie flicked her eyes between the three of them. She rolled her tongue against the inside of her lip, and gave a piteous chuckle.

“You’re right,” she said. “I _did_ murder Mondatta. I’ve killed so many people I’ve lost count. Politicians, protesters, peacekeepers—fathers, daughters, mothers, sons, men and women from all walks of life—I’ve killed them all. Yet here I am, in spite of that, trying to atone for my past and discover a new purpose for my life, and you are trying to dissuade me?” She snapped a palm to her chest, feigning astonishment. “What would the Shambali say?”

“If we provided them our case, they would see you for what you really are,” the young girl hissed. “An _abomination._ ”

“Would they now?” Amélie taunted, thoroughly amused. “Then by all means, go tell them what you think of me if you’re so sure of how they would respond. I implore you, convince them to exile me.”

The girl remained silent, but held her incensed countenance. None of the three moved from their seats, nor spoke further.

“Interesting,” Amélie mused. “You haven't the strength of your own convictions. Kara, correct? That's your name? What a shame—such a lovely name for such a pathetic excuse of a girl.”

Stefan shot to his feet and slammed his palms against the table.

“Do not speak to her like that.”

“What are you going to do to stop me?” she challenged. An admittedly-large part of her wanted him to try. “You’re clearly the knight in shining armour here. You wouldn’t _dare_ raise your hand against a woman, would you?”

Amélie stood from her seat and snatched her plate from the table. “Stop acting like pampered, haughty children and quit moralizing. You think yourselves to be paragons, the metric by which all morals should be measured, but do you know what I see? I see pretentious, miserable, spineless little worms. I would change my tune, if I found myself in the unfathomably unfortunate situation of being _you_.”

“Are you threatening us?” Harshad accused, accosted and furious.

“No.” Amélie leaned across the table, fighting against every last neuron that convulsively fired off the impulse to pin his thick skull to the table. “Speak to me again, try to go over my head and have me thrown out of the monastery, and I will pluck the eyes from your skulls. _Now_ I am threatening you.”

She withered them with an excruciating leer. Speaking with such conviction, she made sure there was no way they could construe her words as anything other than the truth. She turned and left the room, perfectly content with having her meal elsewhere.

She soon found herself in the belfry of the monastery again. It hung high above the snow-dusted soil of the courtyard, close enough to the peak to reach out and pluck the ice from its crown. The heavy bronze bell no longer tolled, having long-since resigned to swaying imperceptibly in the harshly cold wind.

It quickly became her favourite spot. The silence gave way only to the whistling gale, which itself fell upon deaf ears when she assumed meditation. Others seldom joined her here, given the temperature and the thinness of the air—she was not similarly bothered by it.

“You usually come here when you are angry.”

This time, however, it appeared she would have to entertain company.

“Sometimes,” she acknowledged. “But not all the time. The view here is very beautiful.”

“I cannot disagree,” Zenyatta said, taking her side. Amélie found it exceedingly unlikely that his sole purpose of accompanying her here was borne of a desire to admire the landscape.

“I heard about your encounter in the dining commons,” he said after a significant silence, confirming her suspicion.

“I defended myself,” she answered after a moment’s consideration. “Nothing more.”

“You did more than that. They told us of the commination you issued them.”

“You’re upset with how I handled the situation?”

“On the contrary. I came here to applaud you, and to see if you were well.”

Amélie’s brow leapt up. “I… Must admit that I’m quite surprised by that.”

“The threat of violence itself is a deterrent to violence. Sometimes a little intimidation is… Warranted.”

“What have the others said?”

“Their disappointment lies more with Harshad and his compatriots than you. Their behaviour was nothing short of inexcusable.”

Amélie breathed deep the frigid air, a rare kind of sincerity blooming in her chest. “Thank you, Zenyatta. For coming to see me. And for all that you’ve done for me. I don’t know how to repay you.”

“You need not worry about that, child. Take the knowledge you gain here and use it to forge the life you want and deserve—I would consider that ample indemnification.”

Amélie felt a lump rise in her throat. How sweet, how caring and altruistic this curious little Omnic was.

She remained silent, opting instead to lean her head against the cold metal of Zenyatta’s shoulder. He seemed almost surprised at first, quickly recovering with a reciprocation.

Together, mentor and student, friend and friend, they delighted in the Himalayas’ sublime scenery, disconnected from the troubles of the monastery and indeed the world at large. The crisp, wet scent of ice and snow filled Amélie’s lungs, and the sound of—

The sound of…

An engine?

Amélie raised her head from its perch upon Zenyatta’s arm, and narrowed her eyes. A distant shape, black and angular, was barreling through the sky towards them.

She knew that shape. She knew it all too well—an omen silhouetted, foreshadowing death and misery.

“No…” she whispered.

“Hm? What ails you?” Zenyatta asked, his calm demeanor unflinching.

Amélie shot to her feet. “Warn the others.”

“What?”

“They’re here. Warn the others, get them to safety.”

“Who is here?” he rose from the ground. “Amélie, please, calm yourself.”

“It’s Talon, Zenyatta. They’ve found me.”


	8. Monastic Warfare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amélie defends the monastery from Talon's forces. Lena and McCree close in, trying to find locate her while nipping at the combat's heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready for Amélie to be really violent because Amélie's gonna be really violent

The entire monastery was up in arms.

Teachers and students alike flooded the halls, falling into unorganized lines behind Amélie and Zenyatta as the two barreled through the passages trying to round up everyone they could. Time was just as much their enemy as Talon was—they had to move quickly.

They reached the Sanctum—an inner sanctuary open only to the most dedicated of the Shambali order and easily the most fortified location in the monastery—when Amélie split from the huddled mass and started towards the direction from which they came.

“They’ll be here any moment,” she said. She turned to Zenyatta. “Get everyone inside. Let no-one in unless I say otherwise.”

“You’re staying behind?”

“Yes. I’ll hold the line.”

“I will not leave you at the hands of—”

“I will hear no objections,” she interjected. “Get inside and lock the door as tightly as you can. If need be, defend the others.”

Another of the monks, Tchingatta, stepped forth. “Do not mistake our repose for complacency—should the need arise, we are perfectly capable of defending ourselves. And one another.”

Amélie nodded. “Good. You may very well have to, because if Talon reaches you, that likely means I’m dead.”

Zenyatta hovered towards her and took her hand in his, a gesture that spoke far louder than whatever expression he could have donned if he possessed the ability.

“Do be careful, my student,” he said. Incongruous concern weighed heavily upon his voice.

Amélie responded with a curt nod. She took her leave, and as the heavy oak doors slammed shut behind her, she unslung her rifle from her back and drove a magazine into the well.

The antechamber would host her ambush. She positioned herself supinely in the crease of one of the massive bronze Shambali statues’ crossed legs, and trained her rifle on the door. Her visor, which she had adorned alongside her gauntlet immediately upon noticing the troop carrier, closed over her eyes. Her adversaries alighted in vibrant red hues, betraying their position beyond the entrance.

Two ten-man infantry squads, broken up into four five-man fireteams. Her knowledge of Talon squad mechanics worked against the intruders; the squad leaders would likely be taking up cardinal positions just inside the perimeter of the group. They took precedence over the others—disposing of the commanding officers first would likely dissolve coherence.

They gathered around the entrance. Two pointmen crouched at the junction of the two doors, lining the convergence with adhesive remote-detonated breaching foam.

Amélie weighed her options between the highest-value targets; a femoral artery, the base of a skull, a set of lungs, and a left eye. She decided on the second—the cleanest shot she had—and leveled the crosshairs over one of the fireteam leaders. She squeezed the trigger.

The muzzle cracked and ignited, and a bullet sprang forth and split through the door as if it were thin as a veil. The soldier on the receiving end of her ire snapped his head forward and crumpled lifelessly to the stone.

The others ducked their heads reactionarily and withheld the compulsion to scatter like ants. Another strike leader slumped into the floor as punishment for their hesitation.

The doors burst apart into splinters, and they flooded the chamber like a swarm of black-clad locusts.

“‘Step into my parlour, said the spider to the fly,’” Amélie whispered.

*******

“You alright down there, Jesse?”

Lena belted over the howling tempest, spitting the fur from that lined her hood from her mouth. The two adventuring allies were scaling the last frosty impediment that stood between them and the Shambali monastery, having relieved their Sherpa with ample thanks and monetary compensation for his efforts at the foot of the wall.

“I’m fuckin’ cold!” McCree shouted back. “I _hate_ cold! Why’d she have to come here?!”

Lena breathed an exerted laugh. “Hopefully you can ask her when we get there!”

They continued their laborious climb, heaving their picks into the ice and closing in on the edge foot-by-foot. A part of Lena wondered if Amélie really was here at all, or if she _had_ been here and was already long-gone.

She drowned those thoughts out as best she could.

An abrupt change in the sound that accompanied their pilgrimage soared overhead—an engine.

“What was that?!” McCree cried out.

“Beats the shite out of me, but I’ll bet it isn’t good!”

The roaring engine whirred to a nearly-inaudible halt seconds later. It spurred back up to action, and bolted into the distance, disappearing behind the icy clouds that obscured their vision.

“Was—was that a Talon aircraft?!” Lena shouted.

“Troop carrier, looked like! Must’ve followed the same path to her that we did! C’mon, we gotta get a move on!”

On the bright side, Talon’s presence was indicative of a far greater likelihood that Amélie was still in the monastery. The dire side needed no explanation.

Climbing feverishly, they reached the top minutes later and scrambled to the courtyard. A hole in the door and the staccato crackle of gunfire were first to greet them.

Lena dropped her picks into the snow and flicked the pistols from her gauntlets. “Ame _has_ to be in there. Chivvy along, cowboy, let’s go!”

“Right behind ya, kiddo. Let’s kick some ass.”

 

*******

 

Amélie fell back deeper into the antechamber, hiding behind the wall that boasted the fresco of the eight-armed monk and thinning their ranks as best she could. Bullets slammed into the stone inches from her head, forcing her behind cover.

Ejecting the expended magazine and driving a loaded one home, her visor encompassed her face with arachnidan eyes once again. It revealed two men on each side, ascending the stairs and attempting to flank her, with the rest of the unit bringing up the rear.

A bullet tore through the temple of the man at the fore of the right flank as soon as he cleared the wall. Amélie caught his body before it hit the ground, hoisting him up with her arms under his and drawing the sidearm from his leg. His rear guard fired at her fruitlessly, his bullets piercing into his dead companion, and Amélie returned a volley. The soldier twitched violently under the impacts and fell down the stairs.

A hail of gunfire trained on her. She retreated once again behind the wall and dispatched the opposite flank before relieving her shield of his posthumous duty and dropping the quite-literal dead weight.

She withdrew further into the monastery, sealing the doors behind her as gunfire pelted into the wood. She rigged it with a venom mine—that ought to at least stall them.

She flung open the next set of doors along the left side of the room that lead to the cloister, to her own irritation.

Another unit, no smaller than the last, was rappelling in through the open ceiling.

No time for hesitation—her rifle cracked and one of the tethers snapped, leaving the soldier dangling from it to gravity’s whim. Two more claps of thunder, two more men fell, lifeless before they hit the ground. The others fired down upon her as they descended—she evaded the ballistic storm and dove under the walkway to her right, entering the dining commons.

Dammit. She’d cornered herself.

As the last boots of unit two hit the ground, they enclosed on the entrance, and she made a split-second decision.

She bounded across the tables, twirled about-face after her feet left the final hurdle, and leapt back-first out of one of the room’s windows.

The squads entered the room.

“Where’d she go?!”

“Target lost, target lost. Sweep the area, four-metre spread.”

They fanned out into the courtyard, barrels sweeping every sightline to no avail. They hunched their shoulders in anticipation and, in some other cases, fear.

“Kestrel Three-Six, advance into the courtyard and search the surrounding area for Widowmaker. Kestrel Three-Seven and I will move deeper into the monastery.”

“Copy, Kestrel Three-Seven. Happy hun—”

A high-velocity round pinned a solider to the dirt. The others shot their gazes to the sky, aiming and ready to fire when they were similarly struck down—crimson torrents rained onto the snow, and the three other men from which the spatters burst soon followed.

Amélie, silhouetted against the white-blue sky and making use of the same ingress the second unit had, fired her grappling hook into a wooden beam and arched downwards at blistering speed. She swung underneath the walkway and slammed her feet into an infantryman’s sternum, pinning him to the wall and cracking his head against the wood.

The men from the first unit opened the door and fell helplessly into her trap—they doubled over into fits of dry-heaving, bottlenecking the passage and providing her with some much-needed time to thin the herd.

Amélie slung her rifle again and plunged a knife she’d unsheathed from her thigh into the nearest soldier’s elbow, and snapped his arm back at a sickening angle. He cried out in agony, promptly silenced with a shot from the handgun Amélie pried from his rigid hands.

Another vainly attempted to strike her down; she shot the assault rifle from his hands and dug another bullet into his shoulder. He drew a combat knife and drove it downwards in an overhead—she caught his wrist before the blade met her skin, firing three times more into his abdomen and flipping him onto the floorboards.

Those who didn’t fall subject to her onslaught were forced into a harrowing retreat. Amélie gave chase, pushing them deeper into the mountainside.

 

*******

Lena and McCree hugged the walls of the antechamber, the eyeless gazes of the statues looming overhead. Even if the rest of the monastery was as large the first hall led them to infer, it wouldn’t be hard to locate Amélie—they just had to follow the trail of bodies and spent shell casings.

“Definitely looks like our girl’s been hard at work,” McCree said.

“Bloody right it does. Hopefully she won’t be—oi, quiet.”

“You were the one talking—”

“ _Shhshh!_ Listen!”

Not-too-distant voices leavened with panic dispelled the silence that Lena had commanded. They echoed forth from the end of the hall, the building’s poor acoustics evincing the speakers’ location.

Lena and McCree approached the door to the next room. Talon soldiers lined the edges of a bridge that ran the length of the chamber. They were clearly unnerved by something.

“How the hell’d they breathe that shit in?! We’re wearing gas masks!”

“Chewed right through the filters,” came the response. “Stuff’s as caustic as it gets.”

Lena waved McCree down to get his attention and gestured her her to the adjoining room. “I take left, you take right?”

He nodded. “Yeah, sounds good. Count of three.”

McCree counted down on his hand until it clenched to a fist, and they darted out of cover.

The two of them hurled into the room full throttle, bullets whizzing through the air. Some of the mercenaries were quicker to react than others, returning fire while their unluckier counterparts reeled and careened into the abyss below.

Lena dove beneath the hail and blinked into their midst, knocking two others into lifeless freefall with a flurry of pulse fire; McCree dispatched the remainders with perfect precision before they could train their weapons on her.

Six seconds after they entered the room, Lena and McCree the only two left standing in it.

“Think that’s all of ‘em?” Lena asked as the last of the echo of gunfire faded from audibility.

“Don’t rightly know, but something tells me it’s not.”

A chorus of gunshots reinforced his claim. McCree gave Lena a substantiated nod and approached the door. He pulled the serape from his shoulders and waved it at the lingering purple cloud in the middle of the doorway, not wanting to join the pile of dead men beneath it. It dispersed with a few flaps of the cloak, earning an impressed congratulation from Lena.

“Nice one, MacGyver.”

“Thank ya kindly.”

They followed the haunting melodies of a raging firefight through the spacious corridors of the monastery, mindful of any Talon mercenaries that may have lagged behind. Bullet holes riddled nearly every surface, seeping coiling tails of vapour.

The shots grew louder and louder as Lena and McCree weaved through the monastic maze, and Lena ran proportionately faster to find the source. She was confident Amélie would emerge triumphant—especially given the carnage they found at every turn—but every salvo etched worry in her mind anyway.

She had to hurry. She followed the timbre, and raced the clock.

 

*******

 

It was only a matter of time before their numbers turned the tables again. Amélie was forced into another retreat.

The fighting had spilled out onto an outdoor patio. She ducked behind a conical stone statue in its centre, bullets flying past her head like ballistic hornets. The sheer amount of manpower they threw at her was just about the only thing keeping this back-and-forth cat-and-mouse game astir; if Talon hadn’t sent an entire damn platoon after her, she would have slaughtered all of them by now.

Oh well. At least they knew their limits.

Now, she had exhausted her ammunition and was pinned down with eleven more men at her back, plus whatever remained of the first unit who was more than likely on their way by now. It seemed she’d have to get creative.

Amélie tossed the smoke grenades she’d pulled from one of the now-deceased operatives’ vests into the unit’s midst. Dense grey smoke erupted from the canisters and enveloped the men and half of the patio in an obscuring fog.

Thermal optics whined to life. The men waited for a heat signature upon which to unleash their combined fury, but there was none.

She was invisible.

Such was the current state of Talon’s hired help, Amélie mused. She nearly laughed—apparently, they _didn’t_ know their limits. Maybe they should have sent three platoons instead, if these were the kind of forces she would have to worry about.

She activated her visor and charged into the smoke. The grey haze alighted with muzzle flashes and tortured screams. The others who stood beyond the cloud held their fire, afraid of hitting their squad mates instead of their true target.

They readied their weapons at the vision-defying veil as the sound of a fight fell from hearing. They began tentatively down the steps towards the haze, ready to unleash hell on a moment’s notice.

She was far too fast for it to matter.

A steel claw thrust forth from the smoke and coiled around the leftmost soldier’s throat. Amélie darted out alongside it, closing the distance to her adversaries before they could finish her.

With her grapple anchored to one of their comrades, she slid past the right side of the firing line and swept the tether into their legs, knocking their feet out from under them. She flicked her arm upwards as she returned to her feet, cracking the grapple like a whip; the constricted soldier had his neck snapped by the rippling cable as if it was nothing more than kindling.

The others clamoured to their feet, in vain—Amélie was upon them instantly.

She kicked high into the closest soldier’s jaw and unsheathed the knife from her leg once again in a single motion. Another charged her and swung wide—she impeded the strike with her forearm and hooked her heel around and behind his knee, forcing him down where she sunk the knife into the base of his skull and wrenched it from the bone.

Just in time to meet the next; catching his arm she painted crimson ribbons through the frigid air, cleaving viciously into his chest before throwing him over her shoulder.

The man she’d first kicked came from behind, rushing her for a chance at vengeance. He swung a carbon fibre baton at the back of her head; she ducked swiftly beneath it, pirouetting around behind him and plunging the blade into his leg, and then into his temple upon his falling to a knee.

Two more remained. She heaved the heel of her palm into one’s sternum, giving her the distance she needed to punch the blade into the other’s underarm. The first of the two came back at her; she sliced into his flank, putting him in a stagger; she turned again to the second, piercing through the side of his neck with two plunges; he let out a pitiful gurgle and fell to the ground, and Amélie twirled around the last surviving soldier and dragged the blade across his throat from ear-to-ear.

As the last fleeting remnants of life fled the fallen men, Amélie surveyed her handiwork, wiping blood and bits of bone from flat of the blade against her forearm. Their blood ran through the channels between the stones of the patio, creating a deathly latticework across the ground. The scent of copper and the pungency of nitroglycerin were quickly whisked away by the cold wind.

The second unit was dead to a man. The first had likely gotten past the door by now, but it would take time for them to find her, and she was near enough to the Sanctum to let them know of the current state of things.

She found her way back to the doors and rapped her knuckles upon the aged wood. When the entrance didn’t part, she called out to those huddled within.

“It’s Amélie,” she said. “Open up.”

Seconds later, the doors diverged and revealed the group beyond. Zenyatta was at the fore, and greeted Amélie immediately.

“Amélie, my dear, are you well? Have you driven Talon off?”

She shook her head. “Most of them, but the remnants of a unit are still lurking about several chambers back. I’m just keeping everyone in the loop.” Amélie pushed the doors scarcely shut. “Once their finished, we will be in the clear. I’ll be back again soon. Just as before, _do not_ let any—”

“Well howdy, miss!”

Amélie’s head leapt up at the sound of the familiar voice. It called out from behind her, at the end of the hall.

She whipped about-face, and her eyes went wide. Before her stood a gruff man clad in a green parka, cleats, and an unmistakable wide-brimmed hat.

It was none other than Jesse McCree.

“McCree?” she asked, astonished. “What are you doing here?”

“Lookin’ for you, as a matter o’ fact.” A roguish smile parted his face and revealed his sparkling white teeth. He brought his middle and index fingers to his mouth, turned to the entrance of the adjacent room, and whistled loudly.

“Hey, Speedy Gonzales! She’s over here!”

The next thing Amélie heard was footsteps whose speed nearly rivaled that of machine gun fire. In a gust of heat and a flash of blue, another familiar face appeared before her.

Lena.

…It was Lena.

_It was Lena._

Amélie saw her slowly raise a hand to her mouth upon seeing her. She wanted to do the same, but she was… immobilized. Awestruck.

“…Hey, Ame…” Lena’s light, shaking, charming voice called out, barely above a whisper.

As if her voice was all she needed to stir from her standstill, Amélie was finally able to make use of her physical faculties again and dropped her rifle to the floorboards, unable to care where it fell if she tried.

Lena did the same. She cast aside her pistols and unshackled the gauntlets from her forearms. They clattered against the floor.

Then she ran. Like a tempest, she ran.

Amélie did so too. Eyes not leaving Lena’s for the briefest of moments, she flew down the hall until they clashed together in the middle with enough force it was a wonder they weren’t sent tumbling to the ground.

They embraced each other, held each other, _clung_ to one another such that the Earth could split in two and they wouldn’t be pried apart. McCree and the monks and students emerging from the Sanctum looked on in warm wonderment, daring not to do anything to interrupt the reunion.

“I missed you…” Lena sighed. “ _God,_ I missed you so much…”

Amélie couldn’t speak. She fiercely wanted to, but she found herself speechless. Bereft of articulation. Incapable of words expressive enough of the joy and relief she felt.

“Drove me barmy when you left. I won’t ever let something like that happen to you again,” Lena went unsteadily on. “Not ever. I _promise_ you. You’re stuck with me for good, now.”

Amélie exhaled a tired laugh, words finally able to form in her mouth.

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

Lena laughed in turn. Her tears finally spilled over, and she buried her face in Amélie’s shoulder. They stood in one another’s arms in a welcome silence for time indeterminate. They didn’t care how long they stood there, or how strange they might have looked. All one cared about was the other.

After what Lena still felt was not long enough a time, McCree approached them. He held his hat to his chest in respect, looking to Amélie with solemn self-condemnation and poignant remorse.

“I’m sorry for what we did to you, ma’am,” he began. “It simply wasn’t right. If you can find it within yourself to forgive us that almighty transgression, we would love nothin’ more than to have you back. The gang misses you somethin’ fierce. It just ain’t the same back home withoutcha.”

Zenyatta’s words echoed in Amélie’s mind.

_...Worry not what you will do after you are finished here. Simply trust that the universe will an answer ready for you. Instead of fretting and grappling for a solution yourself, trust that it will be obvious and present once the time is right. Trust, in the same way Lena trusts you, and your path will be clear._

As usual, he was right. Her path was as clear as day.


	9. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lena, Amélie and McCree finally return home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS HOLY FUCK THIS IS THE LAST CHAPTER
> 
> Okay, I had A LOT of fun writing this one. This chapter, yeah, but I mean this whole thing. I feel like this one especially helped me nail some shit down in terms of how to improve as a writer. I know a lot more dos and don'ts by now, and I'm gonna keep on plugging away because I LIVE for this shit now. I've got some neat ideas slated so keep your ears to the ground for some more shitshows.
> 
> Thanks so much for all the comments, kudos, bookmarks, feedback, ALL OF IT. Seriously, this motherfucker clocked over a hundred kudos and over TWO THOUSAND hits. This is my most popular fic to date by nearly twice the amount. Hypetown, population: fuckin' MEEEEEEEEE.
> 
> Thanks so much everyone, hope you enjoy the conclusion! (Oh yeah this chapter is long as shit by the way maybe I should have prefaced with that)

Naturally, Lena and McCree had turned out to be a hit with the others in the monastery.

McCree, what with the seemingly-endless arsenal of tall tales brimming with harrowing action, roguish wit and drunken antics that he had accumulated throughout his career, was more often than not launching in overtures of vigilantism ever since things had settled down and order had been restored to the monastery. Some of the monks were visibly uncomfortable with their students playing audience to such morally-dubious regalements, but the students themselves were too engaged to care. McCree had a knack for holding people’s attention, for better or worse.

Lena was just Lena. Vivacious, exuberant, as bright as the sun and always bringing about laughter or laughing herself. Every trait of her personality was always just below the surface of their rawest forms, always skirting the precipice of joy, or humour, or compassion, or geniality given human embodiment.

Or protectiveness, as Amélie discovered when she told Lena of her encounter with Harshad and his friends. She thought she might have had to physically bar the fiery young colt from biting their heads off. Realistically, Lena would not have laid a finger on them—she respected the Shambali far too much to assault their students in their very own temple, but she might have had a word or two with them, to frame it lightly.

She was the most intense in the best of ways, Amélie found. No wonder she felt the way she did about her.

That in and of itself was indicative of the impact Lena had on people. Amélie Lacroix, the Widowmaker, a woman who in times recently past would sooner break someone’s hand than shake it—and still would in many cases—felt… Profoundly about someone. Not outwardly, typically, but profoundly nonetheless.

Nor was it how she felt about Zenyatta. No, it was something greater. Zenyatta was a mentor and a very dear friend, whereas Lena was… Well, a mentor too, in a less overt way, but much more than that.

Speaking of which, those two had bonded exceedingly well. Lena’s admiration of the Shambali and the inspiration she derived from Mondatta, as well as the attitude she held towards the world—one of rare positivity and hopefulness—served well to ingratiate her to Zenyatta immediately. She was, as well, surprisingly astute, which Zenyatta also quickly learned and liked about her.

His acumen, spiritual and academic, was something she had dreamt of discussing for much of her life. They’d spend great lengths of time enveloped in conversation and worldly speculation, learning about the foundation of the Shambali, or discussing global relations between man and Omnic, and if they would ever reach a point of peaceful co-existence.

Amélie would simply watch them sometimes. Watch the two people closest to her bond and converse and laugh. It was… Wonderful.

Now, the time had come for them to take their leave of the monastery and those who dwelled within. Amélie had packed her things and was saying her goodbyes to her mentor.

“Thank you, Zenyatta,” she said for what she was sure must have been the thousandth time during her tenure as a student under him. “For all that you’ve done for me. I will come visit you when I can.”

“And I shall await you with bated breath, dear student,” he said. “Do tell Genji I said hello when next you see him, would you? Also mention that he must visit me more often if he wishes to retain his stature as my favourite pupil. You’ve risen up the ranks very quickly, you see.”

She chuckled. “I’ll convey it word-for-word.”

She brought her parting words to a close when he clasped his hands around hers, and made way to the exit in which McCree and Lena stood.

“You guys get a head start,” Lena said as Amélie approached them. “Gotta talk to Zenny for a sec.”

“Could you keep it short?” McCree asked. “I’d like to keep any time spent freezing my ass off to a minimum.”

“Oh, wah wah,” Lena mocked. “Yeah, I’ll be quick. Meet you guys outside.”

They parted ways, Lena’s and Amélie’s fingertips brushing together as they separated. Lena slowly approached Zenyatta, who still hovered in sight of the door, watching them go.

She reached him without a word. Languidly, she draped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For taking care of her.”

He patted her back reassuringly. “It was my pleasure, Lena. I would be remiss not to thank you for your efforts as well. Without you, it would have been a much harder process for her.”

She drew away from him, cocking her head quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“In order to best adversity, one has to overwhelm it with positivity, as I’m sure you of all people know quite well,” he began. “A good way to accomplish such a feat is by focusing all of one’s thoughts on a thing one finds comforting, or something that brings one joy, even in times of strife. Given how highly she spoke of you to me, I am most certain that when she found herself mired in bleakness, you are who she thought of. You are what… Kept her grounded, so to speak.”

Lena’s eyes glistened. A quivering smile adorned her lips. “Really?”

“Oh yes, I’m quite sure of it,” he said, nodding affirmatively. “I would be rather surprised if she admitted such a thing freely, mind you, but it would be folly to dismiss its likelihood.”

Lena shakily exhaled. To think that she meant so much to someone that meant so much to her…

“That’s… That’s really nice to hear. Thank you.”

She finally parted, sharing some final words with Zenyatta about her being welcome to return to the monastery any time she desired. He was very forthcoming in his interest in continuing their conversation, and expressed his belief that the two of them could learn a great deal from one another, which honoured Lena to no end.

She rejoined Amélie and McCree in the courtyard in short order, a radiant smile on her face and a spring in her step. They were ready to go home.

 

*******

The return trip to Eichenwalde was much more lively than the departure of it. Before, the objective had been to retrieve Amélie _in hopes_ she would be well, or even willing to return with them at all. Now that she was in tow, the mood had lightened considerably.

Multitudinous loud and off-key duets of which Lena was the herald, and, in keeping with her taste in music, were of songs nearing or over a century old, which begged the question of how she’d even heard of them in the first place; celebratory partaking of the whiskey McCree had brought which he’d evidently been saving for the return voyage, and no doubt had been itching to crack open; numerous stops—some a bit quicker than others, as they were a bunch that drew attention more than flame did moths—in the various locales they found themselves travelling through to sample the local attractions, mainly pertaining to food as Amélie’s companions were positively ravenous; the staples of a road trip were present to a tee.

Even melodious voices arcing over a crackling campfire as the world-weary cowboy strummed on a guitar. As it turned out, McCree and Lena could actually sing pretty well when they wanted to, at which Amélie—who was perfectly content with _not_ joining in, despite the insistences she weathered—was pleasantly surprised.

Jollity was just as much a cohort to their travels as they themselves were to one another. Consistent, prevailing, genuine merriment. Fun.

Amélie had _fun_ with them.

Granted, she may have been lacking in the department of emotional convection, seldom lapsing such stoicism except in times of great passion, but she found that she was enjoying herself more and more with each passing day. She would laugh—not a derisive chuckle or sneer, but a _laugh_. She would smile—not a coy grin or foreboding smirk, but a _smile_.

Leave it to McCree to make her laugh with his stories and devilish quips, never faltering in their grandiosity and swiftness. Leave it to Lena to make her smile like nobody else in the world could, with her cockney slang and dreadful language and beaming positivity that could force an ear-to-ear grin upon even the most disdainful personage.

Is this what family was like? What _real_ family was like?

Amélie decided for herself that the answer was a stalwart yes.

*******

The gates of Eicehnwalde parted and beckoned the trio home.

Their vehicle rumbled over roots and piles of upturned cobblestone, and wove carefully around the decrepit husks of the Omnics that still littered the streets; clearing them hadn’t been much of a priority, nor was it now. Perhaps some day the town would resemble a town again, but for now it remained as it was—dilapidated and suspended in time.

McCree steered the car back into the motor pool and killed the engine. The three of them retrieved their things from the trunk and began on a walk back to the pub.

The sun hung low in the sky, diffused orange and pink twilit hues cascading overhead and spilling over the horizon; birds found their chorus replaced by crickets, who emerged from their domiciles to serenade the night; bits of gravel and dirt crunched with every footfall, paired with the faint jingling of the spurs on McCree’s heels. He and Lena were pleased to see that Eichenwalde had not relinquished any of its beauty during their time away—like a living canvas it remained.

They approached the pub, halting before the entrance to bask in its welcome sight, and to introduce Amélie to their new headquarters.

“Home sweet home,” Lena said smiling. “This is the new place.”

“In a pub?” Amélie asked. She upturned the corner of her lips. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Well, we could’ve moved into the china shop around the corner, but Reinhardt and Winston would’ve made an Elliot Ness of the place every time they needed to use the loo,” came Lena’s reply, which earned her a laugh from McCree.

“After you ladies,” he said, opening the door for them.

It creaked as it swung open, and warm yellow light spilled onto the floor at their feet. Someone was cooking food, and casual conversation filled the room, quickly fading as those engaged in it heard the door open. Upon entering, Lena threw her arms in the air and belted out a joyous cheer. The others responded similarly, launching from their seats and flying across the room to re-greet their long-gone friends.

Immediately, Lena and McCree were swarmed. Around their necks arms were thrown and in their ears exclamations of love loudly rung. Mei peppered McCree’s face with rapid-fire affection, clinging to his neck as he lifted her from the floor and spun her in a gleeful pirouette. Reinhardt swept the returning twosome, along with anyone else in their immediate vicinity, into his arms with a contagious, deafening guffaw.

Among the commotion, however, it had taken a few moments for them to realize Amélie was elsewhere. Standing by the door, silent and unmoving and watching the reunion with happiness of a vicarious sort instead of joining in.

Not that they blamed her, of course. They didn’t exactly expect her to be the height of jubilance given what they’d done.

She waved to them awkwardly, keeping her lips pressed into a thin blue line.

Angela left the crowd and strode towards her. Without a word, she caught Amélie off-guard with a penitent embrace. She was the doctor, after all—it was her job to make people feel better, feel welcome, and recent events had done nothing to abate her compassionate, benevolent disposition.

She placed her hands on Amélie’s shoulders after a few moments of silence, and met her eyes with remorse in her own.

“You must have been through so much,” she said quietly. “We’re so sorry, Amélie…”

Winston approached her next. Followed by Fareeha, and a rarely-quiet Torbjörn, all with shame and grief in their gazes. The others watched from the centre of the room where the homecoming had congregated.

“All of us,” Fareeha added. “If there’s anything we can do as recompense for what we did, just say the word. You belong here, Amélie. With us. We should have seen that sooner.”

Amélie took a deep breath. Why hadn’t she better prepared for this? Thought more on what to say?

She glanced to the others, to McCree and Lena for inspiration, and warmth circulated through her chest, stirring the ever-encroaching frost from its mantle around her heart in the kind of way that only Lena could induce.

She rolled the words around in her mouth until they sounded well enough to say. “It’s… I understand why it had to be done. It wasn’t an easy situation. If Lena and Jesse have been any indication as to how the rest of you feel, then I feel welcome here already.”

Amélie saw a collective sigh of relief flee from every pair of lungs in the room. Right before Lena shattered the silence with an exulted shout like glass beneath a sledgehammer, and threw herself into the group around Amélie.

“I _knew_ everybody’d be mates again!”

Just like that, the celebration resumed, wasting no time at all. They sat and ate and drank together for the first time in months.

Reunions of their sort were always ones of vociferous revelry—clamourous rejoicing as if it was the last chance they would have. The kind of lives they lived practically demanded it; they could never be fully certain that those who went out in the world would return successful, or even return at all.

Which made it that much more of an occasion when they did.

As a family, they celebrated the safe return of their own with food and conversation and zeal. Reinhardt shook the tables, floors, windows and most likely the stars in the sky with booming laughter; McCree and Lena relayed their exploits, and the ones they shared with Amélie on the way back, making a point of commending her for the “profound ass-whooping” she distributed among Talon’s forces at the monastery; Amélie herself explained what she was doing there in the first place, her audience hanging on every word.

Dinner had come to a close and the cleaning tasks were divvied up among the diners, with some ribbing protest from the ones assigned dish-duty. Things quieted down for once that evening, and Reinhardt inadvertently reminded Lena of something she had been anxiously waiting to do.

“You know, Lena,” he said, “you ought to give Amélie a tour of the town when you get the chance. You know well of my love for the scenery offered here, but I shall let it speak for itself.”

Lena snapped straight. “Good idea, that’s reminded me!” She turned to Amélie. “Got somethin’ I’ve been waiting to show you.”

Amélie silently asked what it was with the arching of her eyebrow.

“My favourite spot,” Lena answered. She waved her towards the door. “Come on, it’s in the castle on the hill.

The two started towards the exit but were halted in their tracks by unfamiliar footsteps entering the room. They turned in unison to find that who they belonged to.

Jack. Lena hadn’t noticed until that moment that he'd been absent for most of, if not all night. If he _had_ been milling about, she hadn’t seen him.

“You head on outside,” Lena whispered to Amélie, keeping her eyes on Jack. “I’ll, uh, be there in a sec.”

Amélie agreed, exiting the room before her presence evoked any more unwanted agitation.

“Jack,” Lena greeted once Amélie was clear of the room.

“Lena,” he replied. “Glad you and Jesse made it back.”

“Thanks. Happy to be back.” She threw a thumb over her shoulder at the door. “Amélie’s here, too.”

“I noticed.” He breathed deeply, weighing his response. He settled on a simple, yet greatly-surprising, “I’m happy you found her.” He retrieved himself a tumbler of whiskey and quietly left the room.

Whether or not he heard Lena’s jaw collide with the floorboards as she tried to muster a response was unknown.

“Can’t quite say I expected that,” she finally managed. She turned to the others present, requesting an explanation with a befuddled look.

Fareeha chuckled. “We had a good, long chat while you were gone. I don’t think you’ll get any more trouble from him.”

Lena’s surprise turned to impression. “Was kinda expecting to come back to another shouting match, honestly.” She glanced to the door Jack had left out of, and turned back to Fareeha, nodding her head. “Job well done. Thanks.”

Fareeha nodded in return, before gesturing her head to the door where Amélie was waiting. Lena cracked a smile, recognizing the impulsion, and left to join her.

The light turned from the orange-pink of dusk to the blue-black of night as Lena led Amélie up the winding path to the castle, made treacherous by nightfall—Lena nearly faceplanted once or twice via a decommissioned Omnic or inconsistent footing that barred their path.

Having triumphed against the road-turned-obstacle course, Lena and Amélie entered the castle and ascended the tallest of its spires. At the peak lay Lena’s favourite spot in the entire area, easily outclassing any other by miles.

She pushed open the dusty wooden door, its rusted hinges creaking discordantly as the room beyond was revealed.

It was cramped, only a touch more spacious than a walk-in closet. Webs of dust hung in the corners of the ceiling, swaying gently in the breeze that entered through the window, which was the room’s largest accessory; it was almost as tall as the door, and twice as wide. A chair sat some feet before it, either placed there by Lena or left there by the previous tenants.

If any evidence existed that the room was anything other than an observatory, it was nowhere in sight. Perhaps it had been a modest solar, or was used as a dovecote, but the lack of furnishing and absence of any indication as to the status of the room’s retiree left them guessing.

Lena didn’t really care what it had been used for. She just liked the view. She gestured Amélie to the window, welcoming her to glimpse of her favourite way to spend her solitude.

Amélie obliged, leaning her elbows against the windowsill and peering out over the night. The plains looked like an oceanic expanse, the way their fields awash in moonlight lurched and veered in the wind. Pinprick yellow lights dotted the buildings of Stuttgart far off in the distance, beams of light rocking back and forth and illuminating the sky.

“It’s really beautiful, innit?” Lena asked.

“It is, yes,” Amélie concurred. “How did you discover this place?”

Lena sighed. “I’d gotten in a huge fight with Jack. That’s why I wanted you to leave when he showed up; thought tensions still might be pretty high between us. I told you about it on the way back here, remember?”

“You hardly said anything about it. Just that you’d had an argument.”

Lena scoffed at the understatement. “More like a brawl. Had ourselves a pretty nasty barney, actually. I, uh…” She trailed off, her gaze following suit as she assumed the same stance as Amélie in the window. “Kinda... broke a table. With him.”

Amélie turned to her in surprise. “You broke a table _with_ Jack? As in you used him to break a table?”

“…Yeah.”

“What was the fight about?”

“He told me that I needed to stop sulking,” Lena said bitterly, recalling the anger she felt just as much as the conversation that caused it. “I’d been really down in the dumps for a while—‘cause, y’know, with you leavin’ and all—and I felt… betrayed. They took this person that I really cared about and all but told her to naff off, and I didn’t even have a proper chance to act on your behalf or anything. It was like my opinion didn’t count for bugger-all. Made me barking mad. For what happened to you, and that I wasn’t given a say.

“So, I was in a pissy mood on and off for a bit—more on than off, really—and it all came to a head when Jack got the idea to start giving me guff about how I needed to ‘smarten up’ and ‘start acting like a soldier.’ A lot of nonsense. Got right miffed at him and flew across the room, started throwing punches. Reinhardt eventually grabbed me and pulled me out of the pub.”

Amélie stood in silence as she digested the mental image of Lena— _Lena_ , as in _Lena Oxton_ —getting so furious as to become physically violent. It almost made her laugh by virtue of blatant aberrancy.

“So you came here to calm down?” she asked.

“Yep,” Lena confirmed. “Sort of fell in love with the place. It’s so tranquil up here. It always helped me… escape, I guess. I’d been meaning to see the view at night, to draw comparisons, but never got around to it.”

“Here you are now. What do you think?”

What Lena _wanted_ to say, had _been_ wanting to say, was that she didn’t—couldn’t—give a damn about what lay beyond the window when Amélie was in the room. She wanted to say that it all faded into monotony when she looked at her, that it couldn’t hold a candle to the way she looked.

Instead, she lost her resolve and kept her mouth shut. She could almost count on one hand how many times she’d done that throughout her life.

“Too hard to say,” she settled on.

At that, they remained in silence, standing beside one another and overlooking the lands of a lord long since passed. Neither one was sure how long they had been standing there, but the luminescence of Stuttgart’s nightlife dwindled and waned until darkened spires were perched upon the skyline.

The pub followed the city’s example and the lights flicked off as the others readied for sleep. Soon enough, Lena and Amélie were the town of Eichenwalde’s only waking denizens. It felt all the emptier, all the more solitary.

As if they somehow had more privacy than before, Amélie felt an inclination to candor.

“Can I ask you something, Lena?”

Lena might have jumped at the sudden fracture in the silence. “Sure, shoot.”

“Do you know what it feels like to be without purpose?”

The question was far more shocking than its own spontaneous utterance. “I don’t think so, no.”

“It’s… mortifying,” Amélie said. “I had no earthly idea what I would have done if the Shambali hadn’t granted me entrance to their monastery, nor did I know what I would do after I was finished there. For far more time than I care to admit, I went from day-to-day not knowing where my miserable, pitiful life would lead me.”

Lena wanted to protest, to tell her that her life was not miserable, that she meant something, but her tongue remained curbed.

“Zenyatta helped me in that pursuit,” Amélie continued. “Taught me meditation, taught me ways to combat the thoughts and fears that ravaged me, but a part of me still didn’t know. Still gnawed at me. This sibilating little voice in my mind whispered doubts and threats and fears no matter how much I tried to make it go away.”

She hadn’t turned to face Lena since she’d begun speaking. She still didn’t, finding the silver fields of Germany from atop their lofty tower easier to say it all to.

“His prevailing lesson was what helped me most. ‘Embrace positivity even in the face of adversity. Envision a future that brings you as much joy as you can feel, and make all other possibilities impossibilities.’ So I thought of you.”

Lena’s heart nearly leapt from her chest.

_Zenny was right. You thought of me. Ame, you thought of me…_

Amélie breathed a sigh, its thoughtfulness in accord with that of her gaze. “What I’m trying to say is ‘thank you.’ And that I… care about you a great deal. I suppose it might seem strange to you, but it’s…”

She trailed off, feeling a sudden warmth on her cheek. It impelled her head to turn, whereupon she realized it was Lena’s palm. She found her golden-brown eyes glistening.

Lena slowly raised her other hand to the other side of Amélie’s frigid, striking face. She held it there, studying every curve and feature of this beautiful woman that the world had been so unfair to.

Robbed of her ability to speak, Lena leaned up and kissed her.

It hadn’t taken long for Amélie to stymie her surprise and internalize what was happening, and subsequently respond with reassuring alacrity. She wound her arms around Lena’s frame, one pulling at her waist and the other ending in a hand buried in short, wild brown hair.

Lena hooked and arm around her neck and another around the small of her back, and pulled her as close as she could, as close as their bodies would allow. She wouldn’t have let go if the room around them had been burning to cinders.

She reluctantly parted her lips from Amélie’s, the way Amélie chased her on the way down making it that much more difficult. Lena’s eyes fluttered open, and she looked up into eyes like glass saffron.

“You mean something,” she said—she _commanded_ as the truth. “You’ll always have a place somewhere. Don’t you dare think for even a _fucking second_ that as long as I’m breathing, you won’t have somewhere to go.”

Amélie heard her heart thumping in her ears. Louder than she was used to, faster than she ever thought it could beat. The sound was alien, its frequency abnormal.

"Look at what you've done to me, Lena..."

Amélie pressed her lips to Lena’s again, pushing her gently against the cold, dusty walls. Amélie’s palm pressed flat to the stone, the other still fused to Lena’s waist.

Again, they parted, breath heavy and eyes lidded.

“Um...” Lena began. “Do you want to…?”

“What?”

“There ought to be a bedroom somewhere in the castle. If you’re… y’know, ‘tired’, or anything.”

Amélie grinned devilishly. “I could sleep for ages.”

Lena smirked back, her will reinforced. “Guess we should find it then, eh?”

That night, they flew feverishly about the halls trying to locate their lodgings, their voices reverberating throughout the corridors as they called out to one another. That night, satin sheets shifted and weaved around their tangled forms. That night, velvet lips caressed skin of both biting iciness and searing torridity; fingertips stroked intertwined legs and nails dug into rippling shoulders; backs arched from the bed’s surface and eyes clamped shut as bodies writhed with vehemence and ardency; and exerted moans were muffled into feathery pillows and intently-listening ears.

And finally, that night, with breath brushing each other’s lips, limbs entangled and bodies flush, they fell into pleasant slumber.

 

*******

 

Early-morning light pervaded the room through the floor-to-ceiling window the following day and cast the drowsy duo in illuminant rays.

Lena flitted into consciousness before Amélie could stir. She found her lying on her stomach with her arms tucked beneath the pillow, and the sheet pooled at her waist. Her hair was draped elegantly over her shoulders.

She looked beautiful. Of course she did. She always did. More so than history’s most prolific and erudite poets could even dream of describing. Lena cherished that she got to see Amélie like this. That Amélie felt _comfortable_ letting her see her like this. She felt as if she were the richest woman in the world—Amélie was one of its greatest treasures and it didn’t even know it, and she had her all to herself.

She placed her lips on Amélie’s back just above the piled sheet, and trailed kisses over the onyx spider in the centre of her back to the base of her neck. Upon reaching it, she heard a husky groan—it was _absurdly_ attractive—emerge from her.

“Good _mooorniiing,”_ Lena sung quietly.

Amélie made another gruff sound before slowly flipping onto her back. Her arm was splayed out over the bed, the other resting on her stomach. She laid herself bare for the woman lurching over her. Lena glanced down—no doubt in keeping with Amélie’s scheme of trying to fluster her—and a smile crept across her lips.

“An exhibitionist, are we?” she asked.

Amélie smirked in reply. She cupped her hand around Lena’s neck and sent bumps surging across her skin. Amélie’s smile grew to devious proportions, realizing the mischief she could wreak. She grasped Lena in her arms and pulled her downwards such that she was laying pressed against her, now squealing in laughter.

“You’re so cold!” she shrieked.

Amélie’s hand crept down Lena’s back and latched onto her backside, prompting a surprised squeak from her. She kissed and nipped at her neck.

“And you’re so _warm,”_ she purred into her ear. “And _soft._ ”

A deep red blush crept across Lena’s cheeks, still bunched up below her eyes by her own contagious grin. “I didn’t think you’d be so lascivious, love.”

“But you did think about it,” Amélie teased.

Now it was Lena’s turn to murmur into Amélie’s ear. “Plenty.”

The two shared a small laugh together before Lena leaned up and took Amélie’s face in one of her hands. Amélie mimicked the gesture, and Lena nuzzled into her palm.

For seconds or minutes, they weren’t sure, but they lay there staring at one another.

_God, I’ve fallen arse over elbow for her... I love her. I’m in love with her._

“I love you,” she blurted out, unable to stop herself. Her eyes went wide and she slapped a hand over her mouth. Amélie just cocked an eyebrow, looking at her as if she was more surprised by her reaction than her sentiment.

“Oh, my god, I-I’m—I shouldn’t have said that, should I have? I didn’t mean to say that, why did I say that—”

“Lena.”

“Cor blimey _,_ for _once_ can I keep my mouth shut?”

“Lena!”

Lena halted her rambling, successfully whisked away from self-condemnation at Amélie’s behest. She looked to her and awaited her rejoinder.

 _Did_ she love Lena, Amélie wondered? She was admittedly at a bit of a disadvantage when it came to emotional discernment.

Even then, she felt confident that, yes, she did. It _must_ have been that, with the things Lena made her feel. If it had been anyone else, she would not have been as certain.

“I love you.”

Lena’s eyes somehow grew wider. “What?” she asked in an astonished whisper, incredulous of what she’d just heard.

“I said I love you. Kiss me.”

Lena smiled that Lena Oxton smile, the smile that could outshine a solar system. This one was nuanced, however—augmented in some way. It was a smile she reserved only for Amélie.

What she did to deserve such a gift, Amélie wasn’t sure.

Lena happily obliged Amélie’s request and their lips met once again. They spent the rest of the morning in bed, unburdened by responsibilities and free from the cares of the world, happy just to be in the other’s company. It was bliss.

They would have to return to the pub at some point, but they would wait until necessity demanded it.

“Hey, Ame?”

“Hm?”

“Got a question for you.”

“Mm.”

“When you were thinking about what made you happy, up at the monastery—has this been anything like what you hoped for? Are you happy?”

Amélie lost herself in golden-brown eyes again. That alone spoke for itself. She gently thumped her head against Lena’s, and pulled her closer.

“More than I’ve ever been.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This right hither is the link to my Tumblr page.](http://doctorateinrealology.tumblr.com/) I've recently started joint-posting my stuff there as well, so give it a gander if you feel ganderously inclined. It's MOSTLY Overwatch shit, because surprise-surprise I've been assimilated by this fucking game and its fucking fandom. Like I said, my fics henceforth will be there as well, in addition to some general goofery.


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